Finally.
Epilogue: Tytus
Six Months Later, Spring
The urge to crack my knuckles is strong, but I can’t. Not without making an even bigger mess.
Defeated, I drop the spatula into the bowl and growl.
“Jesus H.”
I whip around, finding Mercer standing in the doorway, brows pinched in concern, assessing the kitchen as if it’s a crime scene.
Might as well be, for the mess I’ve made.
“I’ll clean it up,” I insist, face heating. Of course he’d walk in now.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I grunt, shaking my head. “I was trying to make Sawyer a birthday cake.”
“With…” He scans the countertop, his lip curling up. “Windex foam?”
“No, prof. With Blue Monster ice cream. It keeps melting before I can shape it, though. I’ve refrozen it twice already.”
Sidling up beside me, he swipes one finger through the violently blue substance. He holds it closer to his face, sniffs it, and grimaces, then quickly shifts over to the sink and washes his hands. “This is…” he finally says, still wearing a look of disgust, “something you think she’ll like?”
I snort. Like? “She’ll fucking love it. If I can actually pull it off.”
We’re having dinner tonight to celebrate Sawyer’s birthday—Atty’s coming over, too. Mercer got her a fuck ton of roses in different shades of red, and he’s in charge of cooking. Noah has this whole stargazing thing planned in the bed of his truck.
I wanted to make a meaningful gesture, too. Something on par with their surprises.
“When we were kids,” I tell him, “we had these birthday traditions. We each had one day to pick whatever we wanted to do. I always picked laser tag and ice cream.”
“Cute,” Mercer remarks.
I side-eye him and continue.
“I don’t even like ice cream, but Sawyer loves it. The Blue Monster flavor was always her go-to. She used to joke about wanting an entire ice cream cake made of the stuff—”
“And you thought you’d recreate that for her today,” he finishes.
Grimacing, I nod. “It’s going really fucking well, as you can see.”
The asshole only snickers.
“What?” I challenge. For as close as we’ve gotten over the months, he still has a way of getting under my skin. I frustrate the shit out of him, too. But I realized early on that we grate on each other’s nerves so easily because we’re similar in a lot of ways. Not that I like admitting that out loud.
“You never used to be sarcastic.” He shrugs. “I’d like to think that’s my influence.” Reaching out, he ruffles my hair.
I swat at his arm, eyes narrowed. He tries to duck, but he’s not fast enough, and I land a decent smack.
“Don’t start something you don’t want to finish, prof.”
With a chuckle, he rolls up one shirtsleeve. “Dammit,” he groans, frowning down at the Oxford.
Anxiety flares in my stomach when I see it. A streak of bright blue goop smeared from his shoulder to his elbow. I hiss through my teeth. With the amount of food coloring I used, there’s no way that’s coming out.
