“And a mini maple bacon to go,” Charlotte says, and I look over at her.
“Shut up,” she says, and I bite my lip.
Chapter 20
Charlotte
“So let me get this straight,”Josie says as we sit on the floor in our pajamas. It’s Sunday, the universal day of pizza and laundry, and we are in the middle of doing both, chowing down while sorting socks. She’s having pepperoni while I eat the pizza with the bacon topping.
“You went to the bakery to pick out the wedding cake and Gavin didn’t fuck it up,” she says. She pads barefoot into the kitchen, careful not to trip over any of the folded stacks of clothes.
“Nope,” I say.
“And he is the one to suggest red velvet,” she goes on.
“Yep,” I nod.
“Do you want any garlic dip for your pizza?” she asks.
“No, but can you grab the maple syrup?”
“And he didn’t try to talk you into some wacky flavor even though he had plenty of opportunities and all the gumption to do so?” she asks, handing me a bottle of maple syrup.
“You got it,” I say, popping the lid open and drizzling the syrup on my pizza.
“I guess I’m failing to see the problem,” she says, eyeing me strangely.
“That’s the problem; he behaved. It’s twice as infuriating than when he deliberately annoys me,” I tell her. “I mean, if anything, I was the crazy one. I ate like six samples of bacon maple cake, and I ordered one to go.”
“You brought home cake?” she asks with a giggle as she dunks her pizza in ranch.
“I did. I would have shared it with you, but I ate the whole thing…in one sitting,” I say, opening the syrup bottle again.
“Pregnancy craving.”
“I don’t know?”
“I’m not asking,” Josie says. “I’m stating.” She points with her eyes at the syrup and bacon pizza. I cover my mouth to chuckle.
“Listen,” she says. “He seems like a pain in the butt sometimes, but isn’t it a good thing that you’re getting along better? If the two of you have to work together, I’m sure it’s easier if you’re not at each other’s throats.”
“It is,” I agree. “It’s just…I don’t know. It’s still frustrating.Heis frustrating.”
“Why do you think that is?” she asks. I can tell just by the way she asks that she’s already psychoanalyzing.
“Because he’s irritating and smug and always thinks he’s got the upper hand.” I conclude.
“Or…because you like him?”
“What do you mean, I like him?” I ask.
“I mean, you might not hate him as much as you think you do.”
“I never said I hated him, but I definitely don’t like him,” I say.
“Is that why you keep sleeping with him?” she asks. That’s what I get for telling her everything.
I toss my half-eaten pizza slice on the plate. “I only slept with him once, and that was before I knew who he was. It was supposed to be a one-night-stand, a one and done. I thought I would never see him again after that night.”
