Read: Hi
Read: Sorry, good afternoon. I’m happy to hear from you.
Heat climbed my neck.
Another flash.
Read: How was your day?
“Oh shit,” I whispered into the empty room.
Me: It was okay. A bit stressful, but nothing out of the norm. How was yours?
Read: Mine was about the same.
His message was simple. Unforced. Effortless in a way mine weren’t.
Read: Do you have plans for tonight?
“Hell no,” the words hissed out, and I flung the phone to the far end of the couch like it had burned me.
A door clicked down the hall.
“Sorry!” Candace rounded the corner, towel-drying her hair, steam billowing behind her. “I needed to rinse off last night.”
“How’re you feeling?” I asked, grabbing the distraction with both hands.
“It was a rough morning,” she admitted. “But the shower helped.”
She was doing what she always did—deflecting, distracting, throwing herself into my problems instead of facing hers. I let her. For now.
“Good.” A grin. “I asked Susan to make squid-ink pasta tonight.”
Her head snapped up. “No, you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Hell yes.” She pressed her palms to her cheeks, dragging them down in disbelief. “That dish gives me life.”
“And stains our teeth like swamp creatures,” I added.
Something settled between us, easy and familiar. Then, at the same time:
“Documentary,” we said, in unison.
We both cracked up.
“Portrait of a Heist?” I suggested. It had been sitting on our list for months.
She pointed a finger at me. “Fine, but if there aren’t forged Picassos and drama, I’m out.”
“Is a brooding museum director with a secret agenda acceptable?”
“Sold.”
She hopped onto a barstool, twisting the towel on her head, mischief breaking across her face. “Now that that’s settled, we can talk about who you were messaging.”
“Ugh—” I froze. “I wasn’t.”
