"Special delivery. Two pints of Giuseppe's and an unhealthy amount of whipped cream."
Then he flashes that grin—the one that makes entire crowds lose their minds—and adds, "Also... called it. I knew you were still awake."
Shut up, Westbrook,my inner sass-monster hisses.You don't get points for knowing me too well. That's literally your whole job as my best friend.
I roll onto my back, arms crossed, forcing my face into something neutral. "Wow. Congrats on your psychic abilities. Want a medal?"
His smirk deepens, like my fake attitude is just feeding him.
And me? I want to scream. Or laugh. Or jump him. Honestly, all three at once.
Without missing a beat, Zach plops down on my bed like he owns it, making the mattress bounce. Which, honestly, he kind of does—he's slept here so many times it's basically his second bed. Not that I'm complaining.
He unloads his loot with dramatic flair. Out comes pint #1, pint #2, and the grand finale: the can of whipped cream. My favorite.
He shoves the pistachio one into my hands, lid already popped, plastic spoon stuck inside like it's a done deal.
"Bribing me now, Westbrook?" I arch a brow, arms still crossed.
He gasps like I've mortally offended him. "Bribing? No, no, no. This is calledtradition management." His grin goes cheeky. "Technically, this way, we didn't skip Giuseppe's after the game. Loop-hole."
I narrow my eyes. "Mm. Sounds suspiciously like bribery."
He holds both hands up in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. Call it what you want. Let's say... peace offering."
I snort. "Peace offering, huh? And what crime are you begging pardon for?"
Zach tilts his head, lips pushing into the most ridiculous pout, eyes wide like some sad golden retriever who just got told'no'at Petco. "Oh, come on, Sugarplum. You're mad at me. I canfeelit. And you know I can't survive when you're mad at me."
Ugh. He knows exactly what he's doing. The stupid pout. The stupid puppy eyes. My kryptonite.
I shrug, feigning total disinterest. "Don't know what you're talking about."
Inside, my inner sass-monster is screaming:Lie! Lie! You're folding like origami and he knows it.
And the worst part? That smug little grin creeping back onto his face tells me he definitely does.
Zach smirks, scooping a big spoonful of pistachio ice and piling it high with whipped cream. "Fine. If you won't admit you forgive me, I'll just have to force it out of you."
I eye him suspiciously. "Force it how? What, you gonna bribe me with dairy products again?"
"Better." His grin goes full wicked. "Tickle torture."
My eyes widen. "You wouldn't dare."
"Oh, Sugarplum." His voice drops to that playful, mock-serious tone. "YouknowI would."
And then he pounces.
"Zach!" I squeal as his fingers find my sides first, and I nearly fling the Italian ice across the room.
He laughs—loud, unstoppable—while I kick and twist, trying to keep the pint upright. "Stop! You're gonna make me spill—ahhh! Zach!"
But he doesn't stop. He knows every spot, every single place I'm ticklish—because of course he does. Behind my knees, my neck, the small of my back—no mercy. I'm laughing so hard my stomach hurts, tears squeezing out of my eyes.
"I—hate—you—Westbrook!" I gasp between hysterical shrieks, clamping the ice against my chest like it's my only child.
He just grins wider, relentless. "Say you forgive me, and I'll stop."
