We sank into the couch, bowls cradled in our hands. The TV flickered to life—grainy Parisian galleries, a gravel-voiced narrator aged in smoke. The glow caught the swirl of inked noodles, glinting off the dark sauce.
Me: We just hit play.
Read: Perfect. I made a sandwich, and I’m settling in. Is this narrated by Attenborough? I thought he only did animal docs.
I fought back a grin, hiding it behind a monstrous bite of pasta.
Me: Equally surprised—but I’m glad he’s branching out.
I typed one-handed, juggling pasta and Read while women in tailored coats smuggled forged masterpieces through dimly lit corridors as the film found its rhythm.
Read: Is it me, or does that curator look like he hasn’t slept since the Impressionist era?
Me: He’s probably hiding a stolen Monet and three emotional-support secrets.
Read: Tragic men with impeccable taste. A classic combination.
My mouth betrayed me, curving before I could stop it.
Candace arched an eyebrow. “How’s the boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I shot back, tucking the phone between my legs.
“Mm-hm. And this is not my third glass,” she quipped, the wine sloshing as she waved it.
I rolled my eyes and turned back to the screen.
Read: Did the narrator just call forgery “a tender act of rebellion?”
Me: He did. And he might have a point.
Read: You approve of crime?
A tiny bit of sauce splattered on my shirt. I licked it off, eager to hide the evidence before Susan could ridicule me.
Me: Only elegant ones.
Read: Jesus, I messaged a criminal.
My lips twitched as I typed.
Me: That’s your fault, not mine.
Read: And I’d make the same mistake again. I’m enjoying our conversation.
My pulse jumped, my fingers typing before I could second-guess myself.
Me: I am, too.
Chapter 5
***
The sun was already climbing when the alarm split through the stillness.
I groaned, fumbling across the nightstand until my fingers found the phone, cool against my palm.
Weeks had blurred together. Emails. Investor demands. Late-night messages with Read.
