Ugh.
“Fine.”
She leaves down the hall, still mad.
I blow out a breath, roll my shoulders, and turn back to the half-built table sitting in the middle of the room Frankie left me with.
Fine then. Back to work.
I workon the table for a bit. The cheap wood creaking every time I shift my weight and the drill Solace lent me keeps coughing like it smokes more than Frankie does. Still somehow, it comes together.
Of course it does. It’s me.
“Wow. I’m surprised it’s standing.”
I jump so hard I nearly drop the screwdriver.
“Christ!” I snap, whipping around. “When did you get here?”
Frankie only lifts a shoulder. She’s changed out of her Moomoo—thank God—and into a fitted tee that hugs her waist and a pair of midwash jeans that ride low on her hips. Her locs are piled up messily but somehow perfectly, like she didn’t try but also absolutely did.
“I ordered the pizzas,” she says casually, walking past me with a sway that she knew makes me look. “Should be here soon.”
“Oh.” I cross my arms. “Getting dressed up for your pizza date, huh?”
She doesn’t even look over her shoulder. “Shut up. It’s not like that.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
We both collapsed onto the couch, an unspoken truce settling between us as we stared at the reconstructed table.
“About earlier,” I start carefully.
“Don’t worry,” she interrupts before I can build momentum. “I already filed that under effects of second-hand smoke in my memory.”
“Thank God.” I lean back. “I don’t need you thinking less of me.”
“If that’s even possible,” she murmurs.
“Seriously? After I built you this perfect coffee table?”
She meets my stare head-on, eyes glinting. Then she swings her foot out and kicks the leg.Hard. The table wobbles dramatically, doing the absolute most.
“Fuck off,” I mutter.
“Aww, don’t be like that.” She grins wickedly. “At least it doesn’t fall.”
“Of course it doesn’t fall.”
I throw my feet up onto it, testing my own handiwork. The table shivers under the weight but stays upright, my sheer willpower holding it together.
“Ha! See?”
When I glance back at her, she’s actually pouting. Full-on lips pushed out, brows creased, thumbs-down like a sulking cartoon character. I don’t know why it throws me off, but it does andmy chest tightens, and for a split second she looks… soft. Maybe because it’s cute, which is unacceptable.
I kinda like when Jelly’s upset and she makes that pissed off face.
“You sure that thing’s stable?” she asks.
