“What’s that?” Sasha asked, setting the plate on the table as she sat across from April and nodded toward her sketch pad. “Looks interesting.”
April slapped the book closed. “Too early to tell.”
“You are a moody little mystery, aren’t you, Evans?”
April laughed, rubbed at the graphite staining the side of her left hand. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
“Shocking,” Sasha said.
“Heard what?” Daphne asked, pulling out the chair next to Sasha. She still hobbled a bit on her ankle, but as far as April could tell, it was better. Just a mild sprain.
Today, Daphne’s hair was pulled up into a messy bun on top of her head, lavender tendrils curling around her face. She wore a plain white tee and loose light-wash jeans, paint smeared on both as well as her arms and fingers. A slash of green streaked across her cheek, and April felt an irrational swell of affection.
It was paint. On her face.
Get a fucking grip, April Evans.
Daphne met April’s gaze, though, and her cheeks immediately went a little pink. April had quickly learned that Daphne blushed if someone so much as complimented her shoes, but, unless April was imagining it, her cheeks seemed to be flaming a lot more around April over the last couple of days.
She was probably imagining it.
“That April is an enigma Goth,” Sasha said.
Daphne frowned. “Is that a thing?”
“I just made it a thing,” Sasha said.
April laughed. “I’ll put it on my website.” She leaned forward, finally taking full notice of the plate Sasha had set down in the middle of the table. “Oh, hello.”
“That smells amazing,” Daphne said. “What is it?”
“Oh, yeah, right,” Sasha said, sitting on the edge of her seat as though she’d forgotten her own dish. “My buddy is the sous chef, and she lets me use the kitchen here and there between meal prep, just playing around.”
“You cook?” Daphne asked.
“A hundred percent,” Sasha said. “I spent the summer as a dishwasher in a Michelin-starred kitchen in Paris last year. I learned how to make a mean chocolate soufflé.”
“Bartending, cooking, dishwashing,” April said. “What the hell do you actuallydo?”
Sasha’s eyes went a little dark, her jovial expression faltering for a split second. “This and that.”
April’s brows lifted, and she pressed her hand to her chest before gesturing toward Sasha. “Enigma Goth, meet Enigma Butch.”
Sasha laughed. “I’ll take that title very gladly.”
April shook her head. Sasha baffled her more and more each time she hung out with her. Still, she had to admit whatever Sasha had just placed on the table smelled incredible. It looked like a pizza, but not like any pizza she’d ever known. It was purple, for one thing, with a sweet and savory scent all at once. Sasha plucked a triangle from the dish and set it onto an empty plate for Daphne, then another for April.
“I’m starving,” Daphne said, digging in immediately. Her eyes rolled back in her head. “Oh my god, Sasha.”
“Right?” Sasha said. “Blackberry ricotta pizza. I think it’s perfect for summer.”
April took a bite too, inhaling the aromatics from the basil as she did so. Tang exploded on her tongue from the berries, and the cheese added a decadence and luxury to the whole thing. The crust was incredible—thin, but still chewy, dusted with semolina.
“Fucking amazing,” April said with her mouth full.
“Yeah?” Sasha said, her eyes wide and hopeful. “I got the inspiration from when I was in Italy last fall.”
“You’ve been to Italy too?” Daphne said after swallowing another bite.
