Like how it’s becoming physically impossible to focus on work when his voice clings to me for hours.
“Top secret, sure,” Lina repeats, rolling her pale eyes as she grabs another tray of cookies. “Might I remind you that you are Miss ‘Miss-Don’t-You-Dare-Keep-Secrets-From-Me’?”
“This is not a secret Iwantto keep!”
I mean it. And honestly, I have no idea how much longer I’ll last before this forbidden topic explodes out of me.
Ugh… when did I become so bad at my job?
Lina—currently decorating pumpkin-shaped cookies with the precision of a heart surgeon—barely lifts her gaze.
Her short hair is pulled into two tiny fuchsia pigtails sticking out on each side, and the little hoop in her nose gleams under the warm kitchen light.
“He’s driving me out of my mind,” I finally confess, dropping my head into my hands.
“Who?” she asks in a very unconvincing innocent tone.
“I can’t tell you!”
My hands itch to grab my hair and yank.
“Then don’t complain,” she sings, swiping a bit of frosting with her finger and tasting it.
I glare at her, then reach for the Prosecco bottle on the counter.
“Oh no. Sloane Heart is drinking. It’s official—we’re doomed.”
“I need it,” I mumble, popping the cork with a sharpcrack.
The cork ricochets off the ceiling. Fantastic.
Lina peers over her glasses like she just relived a past trauma.
“I remind you that a drive exists with photographic evidence of your poor tolerance, right? Spring 2023, Tulip Festival party? Two Spritzes, and you started asking everyone if they wanted to join your Cupid’s Agency.”
I clap my hands over my ears. “Lies. And anyway, it was networking.”
“Sure. And when you ate those rum chocolates at Christmas and serenaded the mayor withSanta Baby, that was…?”
“A dosage error.”
Seriously. Why did Mother Nature give me the alcohol tolerance of a squirrel? Who gets tipsy eating rum-filled chocolates?
I burst out laughing, remembering the mayor’s face.
And for the record—Mayor Ninolovedmy performance. He still calls me Santa Baby and asks me every year to join the Christmas karaoke contest.
Lina laughs too, her fuchsia pigtails bouncing like little pom-poms.
“Alright, lightweight. Just drink slowly. I refuse to explain to Rae why you’re congratulating the microwave again.”
I huff and pour myself a glass before grabbing a cookie from the tray.
A pumpkin-shaped one with perfect frosting and soft white-chocolate filling.
I take a bite. Holy heavenly meltdown.
“Okay, these should be illegal,” I mumble with my mouth full.
