Do not ask, Callie.
“Guilty about what?”
“About the fact that I’m tricking you and you’ve got no clue.”
“Tricking me how?”
His lips twitch with a secret knowledge that I don’t have yet. But his eyes are all grave and intense as he replies, “The only reason I asked you to spin on your toes for me is because I wanted that skirt of yours to flip up. I wanted that skirt of yoursto spin with you. Because I wanted to see. I finally wanted to get a peek of what’s under your pleated, good girl skirt.”
By the time he finishes with his story, my legs are all sweaty and sticking to the seat.
My thighs are clenched as well.
They’re all tight and tingly and restless and…
“I think I should go.”
A soft voice breaks my fog.
It’s Wyn.
Who’s been sitting here all this time — at my insistence, no less — and who heard everything. Every single word. Every singledirtyword.
Crap.
How did I forget about her?
How did I forget that my friend was sitting right here?
From the looks of it though, he didn’t.
He didn’t forget that she was here.
In fact at Wyn’s words, his mouth tips into a tiny smile as he drawls, “Yeah, I think so too.”
And then without moving his eyes away from me, he stands up and makes way for her to do just that.
As she’s leaving, Wyn presses her lips together — no doubt to keep her smile or laughter or whatever at bay — and mouthsgood luckbefore disappearing.
As soon as Reed sits back down, I snap, “You did that on purpose. You said all those… dirty things in front of her on purpose.”
He looks at me calmly and picks up his coffee mug, which I didn’t even notice he had up until now.
He takes a sip of it as if he has all the time in the world, before putting it down and deigning to speak. “I gave you a choice. But you kept insisting.”
I growl, wrapping my fingers around my half-drunk lemonade and thinking about throwing it in his face.
But I won’t.
I’ve already displayed a lot of violence ever since he came back into my life. Which was not even twenty-four hours ago.
“How did you even know I was going to be here?”
As soon as I say it, that question — how he knew — becomes big.
It becomes the question of the hour. Of the day. Of the week even.
How did he know I was going to be at Buttery Blossoms today? And what about Ballad of the Bards? How did he know I was going to be there last night?
