I don’t feel perky. “I had a latte after dinner.”
“Mmm.” She leans closer, her eyes narrowing as she looks at me. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend you’re not worried about something, so you casually stay up all night and claim it’s from caffeine.” She pauses and shakes her head. “Like I haven’t seen you down an energy drink at ten and literally snoring on the couch by ten-forty-five.”
I close my laptop. “First of all, I do not snore.”
She laughs, her head falling back against the couch cushion, throat exposed under the yellow lamplight. Her shoulders shake slightly, the too-big hoodie slipping further down one arm.
I lean back, mirroring her posture but tipping my nose up a little. “It's called seasonal allergies.”
“That you have year-round?” Her laughter fades, but her smile remains, one eyebrow arching upward. She taps her finger against the arm of the couch three times, waiting.
“That’s what the allergist said.” I grab the throw pillow—the one with the coffee stain we never quite got out—and launch it across the space between us. “Like you'd know anyway. You're not exactly getting nightly reviews of my sleep habits.”
Her smile shifts into something sharper as she catches the pillow. She leans forward, elbows on knees. “Speaking of which...”
I stare at the ceiling, counting the water stains. “There's nothing to talk about.” My fingers find the loose thread on my sleeve and twist it tight around my index finger until the tip turns white.
She tucks her legs beneath her, twisting sideways until her knee presses against my thigh. Her lips curl into that particular smile—the one that means she's about to pry something out of me. “Mm-hmm, that's not what I heard.”
My fingers freeze on the keyboard. “From who?”
The pillow sails across the space between us. I snatch it mid-air, the fabric warm from where she'd been clutching it. “From you, you dork,” she says, leaning forward until I can smell the faint traces of tequila on her breath. “Your texts have been suspiciously vague. Two days I've been gone, and suddenly you're 'busy' and 'catching up later'?” She wiggles her fingers in air quotes. “Whatishappening with Mister Tall, Dark, and Handsome?”
“I saw Gage and Cruz yesterday.”
Her mouth drops open. She blinks once, twice, then her eyes widen so dramatically I can see the whites all around her irises. “Holy shit,” she whispers, then lunges forward to grab my arm, nearly toppling us both. “I wasn’t expecting a three-way so early, but you know what? Hell yeah!” Her fist shoots upward, nearly knocking over the lamp. “That's my girl!”
I swat her hand down, my palm connecting with enough force to make her wince. “What? No.” My cheeks burn hot. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“I literally cannot,” she says, pressing a hand to her chest, eyes wide with mock sincerity. “It's my permanent residence.”
I roll my eyes. “They approached me about working together again.”
Her smile vanishes. She sits up straight, shoulders squaring. “Shit, really?”
I nod, watching her expression shift from playful to calculating in an instant.
“And you said...?”
I lean back against the cushions, putting space between us. “That I needed to talk to you and Beck first.”
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, gaze drifting to the window. I explain the details—the timeline, the payout, the risks—while her fingers drum against her knee. When I finish, she exhales slowly through her nose. “Hm.”
I wait. Lola's fingers tap a slow rhythm against her knee—one, two, three, pause. Her eyes drift to the ceiling, then to the window, then back to me.
Finally, she asks, “How did that feel? What was the vibe?”
I shrug. “It sounds like a challenge, but I don't know. Doable. Maybe even fun?”
Her eyebrow lifts a fraction of an inch. The tapping stops. “Fun how?”
I open my mouth, then close it again. The clock on the wall ticks seven times before I take another breath. She doesn't lean forward or prompt me, just waits, her body perfectly still in the lamplight, the way she's waited through a hundred late-night confessions before.
I pick at my cuticle, searching for the right words. “Fun, like… we worked well together. It felt easy in a way.”
