Paul nods, all serious. "Affirmative, Sinner."
I glance at Mara and whisper, amused, "Wait, they call each other that?"
"Yeah." She sighs like she's had to live through it. "We've allplaced bets."
"On what?"
"Origin story. What it means. Those two are always trouble, so I'm sure it's something ridiculous. But it doesn't matter since they made some blood pact."
I chuckle under my breath. "It's giving matching tattoos."
"Don't tempt them." Mara smirks and calls: "Guys, play us some nineties. If I'm going to peel cucumbers, might as well have the right to boss the playlist."
"You're bossing, even when you have no right," Ben says dryly, but he shifts the tune instantly, and Paul follows without missing a beat.
The song we all know so well from childhood rolls out slow and blue, people gathering around and singing.
Even I start to hum along, watching him while he plays, pretending he's not watching me pretend not to watch him.
It's ridiculous, this little game. His smirk gives him away. Mine probably does too.
Ben doesn't really sing. If he does, it means you're in his inner circle. He says it's only for real fans, and I agree. Fans or true romantics because it's a warble.
But the way he plays? The way he holds the guitar like he owns it, the strumming, the pauses, even the way his fingers move like they're memorizing skin is slow-burn seduction.
So I get distracted and let the oil bottle slip from my hand.
A golden tide spreads across the counter before I can catch it.
"Shit," I hiss.
"It's fine." Mara waves her hand, murdering the salad with pepper.
I blink at it. "Okay, that's enough. You want to kill us?"
"Flavor is everything, babe," she says, tossing the last tomato with a flair before she calls out, "Okay boys! Food! Come! Come!"
Ben drops the guitar and strolls over—he must be really hungry.
Paul takes his time, still puffing on his harmonica like we're in some dusty southern movie.
We put the salad on the plates and gather around the low foldout table, knees colliding under, too close for comfort.
Ben barely fits, elbow brushing mine, but there's nowhere to go, so we start eating.
Halfway through the meal, a couple settles off to the side and immediately starts making out like it's their last day on Earth.
"Wasn't she with the bearded guy this morning?" Paul nods a subtle chin their way.
I side-glance them and nod at him. "They have an open relationship. These two have been at it since, like, three?"
Paul lifts a brow at Ben. Ben lifts one back at him. Some bro-code telepathy. Useless, but amusing.
"Don't even," Mara warns, catching Paul's chin between her fingers and pinching. "Eyes on your fiancé and the plate she made you."
Paul laughs, fork dangling in the air. "Em, rule number one—never date an Italian. They're all trouble. Ouch!" He yelpswhen Mara squeezes harder.
Ben and I catch each other's eyes, then drop them back to our plates just as fast, pretending it never happened and we're minding our business.
