I run a hand through my hair, watching her go.
She knows.
She didn’t run.
And if I read her right… she’ll come back.
Good.
I drop my hands to my hips, turning back toward the bar.
Before I can even process where to start on this hazardous zone, the back door swings open, and Will walks in.
He stops dead in his tracks, eyes scanning the mess. Discarded plates, half-eaten takeout containers, overturned glasses, and spilled liquid.
Silence.
A slow inhale. A slower exhale.
Then very carefully: “What. The. Actual. Fuck.”
I press my lips together. He’ll flip if I smile.
Will blinks at the crime scene. At the potato salad. The whipped cream. The napkins scattered like confetti. Then back at me, his gaze sharpening, calculating whether I’ve lost my entire goddamn mind.
His eyebrow twitches.
Then, in a very calm, very controlled voice I hear my name.
I brace myself.
“Why,” he continues, scanning the damage, “is there potato salad everywhere?”
I glance at the sad, overturned potato salad cup on the barstool. “Things got out of hand.”
Will’s eyes narrow. “No shit.”
His glare flicks to the whipped cream. Back to me. Back to the whipped cream.
His nostrils flare. His mouth opens, then he immediately shuts it.
A slow crawl of recognition pulls across his face until only horror remains.
“Oh my God.” He steps back, mimicking physical repulsion. “Oh my God.”
I stay silent.
He jabs a finger at the bar with the kind of wounded indignation usually reserved for personal betrayal. “Hex. Please. Tell me that is not—”
I hold up a hand. “Will.”
“Tell methat is notsexually involved whipped cream.”
I scrub a hand over the stubble on my jaw. I level him with a look. “Will.” I repeat.
He leans closer, voice barely above a whisper, as though bracing for something he doesn’t want to hear. “Hex… was the potato salad alsoinvolved?”
I exhale through my nose. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”
