I shake my head at their nonsense.
Bash is outside, thankfully, playing with a friend from the neighborhood. Last Sunday, I came home to a freshly landscaped yard. Weeded flower beds, a new seating area under the oak tree, and a playscape obstacle course that Bash immediately claimed as the greatest thing to ever happen.
Through the window, I catch a glimpse of him gripping the rope swing, his friend cheering him on.
Good. That means he won’t hear me telling his godmother that I let a hitman—excuse me, “handler”—give me the best orgasm of my life on top of a bar.
Demi turns back to me, hazel eyes gleaming with mischief. “Alright, back to the more pressing matter. The bar. Tell me everything.”
I set my glass down. “It was a moment. A very… intense moment.”
She tilts her head. “Intense. Sure. That’s one word for it.”
“Demi.”
She holds up her hands. “I just want details, okay? How many surfaces did you desecrate? You said there was barbeque. Wait—oh my God, were baked beans involved?”
“No, baked beans were not involved.”
She snaps her fingers. “Damn. That would’ve been iconic.”
I drop my head into my hands. “I hate you.”
“You love me.”
I sigh. “I do. Which is why I’m telling you this.”
Demi props her chin in her hands, practically vibrating.“You’re telling me this because you know you’re in too deep, and you need me to tell you that it’s totally fine that you’re dating a killer.”
I point at her. “Handler. You said it yourself. He confirmed. There’s a difference.”
She snorts. “Suuuuure there is.”
I groan, grabbing my water. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation while my mother is five feet away mixing potions, and my child is playing in the backyard.”
Demi clinks her glass against mine. “Happy birthday, babe. Best one yet.”
A knock at the front door cuts through the room. It’s a sharp interruption to the easy rhythm of conversation. I glance toward it and my curiosity flares. I’m not expecting anyone.
I get up and open the door to find a delivery guy, too bright-eyed for a Sunday afternoon, holding a massive pink box like it’s filled with The Crown Jewels. He sets a small envelope on top and smiles.
“This is for you,” he says, his young voice too calm for my current level of intrigue.
Demi appears behind me and squints at the box. “Is that a fucking cake from Lisa’s Bakery downtown?”
Taking the package from the guy and shutting the door behind him, I open the flaps, and the breath leaves my lungs.
Red velvet. Frosted to perfection. Thick, creamy layers that could be described as nothing but sinful.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, resisting the urge to lick the frosting from the lid.
“I might just cream in my panties.”
“You’re disgusting,” I reply, barely juggling the oversized box.
Demi giggles, takes the cake and hands me the envelope. “Open it. I need to know who sent this.”
I tear it open and slide out the card. One glance confirms what I already expected. It’s Hex. Short. Sweet. Warm enough to melt steel.
