“Yeah.”
She flapped the sandwich baggie of bud in the air. “This is a lot. What do I owe you?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Where did you find this?!” Holding the pipe up to her eye, she peered down the hole in the stem. “It’s so clean. This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. A little mushroom! I love it.”
“I made it.”
“Really? Oh, of course. It’s gorgeous. How’d you make it? This is ceramic, right? Do you use a mold or something? It’s perfection.”
She did talk a lot, but damn, she was cute. Flailing her arms around and bouncing with excitement while she praised his work—it did funny things to a man’s chest.
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
“I do.”
She scoffed. “Aren’t you going to come in?”
Fuck. He was still standing in the doorway. “Uh, I need to get groceries,” Elliott said, already inside and pushing the door shut. His bear was riding himsohard, it hadn’t even been a conscious choice.
“Don’t you want to christen this with me?” Unzipping the baggie, she plucked out a bud and started packing her bowl. “I could use help with my futon. Could your groceries wait a bit?”
“A little bit. I guess.” He fidgeted.
“Does that mean you’ll help with the futon? Don’t make me ask Liv to come over, she’spregnant!”
Chuckling, he nodded, his bun wobbling with each dip of his chin.
“Good. And you let me know if I’m talking too much for you, yeah, Elliott?” Flashing him a grin and a wink, she opened an already-full junkdrawer and dug around.
He never should’ve said she was too chatty. It was true, obviously, but mean of him. Luckily—hopefully—she seemed to be taking it as a joke. Which itwas. Just a bad one. “Oh, I’ll tell you when it happens.”
“Found it.” Pulling out a yellow lighter, she lifted the pipe to her mouth and took a slow hit.
When her lips curled around the mushroom cap mouthpiece, his mind swerved right into the gutter. He shouldn’t have given her such a phallic gift—should’ve gone with the vase-bong.
Exhaling a smooth stream of smoke up and to her right, she handed the pipe to him, then swished over to her phone, cranking her music. “Candyman” was on. It wasn’t one of his top tunes, but the Grateful Dead was his all-time favorite band,thegroup he’d choose if he was stuck on a desert island.
“Are you going to take that hit?”
“Mhm,” he replied, forcing his eyes to roam the room rather than her body while he inhaled. Too much of a good thing was dangerous, after all.
Fern had done minimal unpacking from the looks of the place: Her bed was made up in a colorful comforter and pink sheets, and her bookshelf stood along the wall near its foot, full to bursting and organized like a rainbow with a stack of extra books on top. Setting the bowl down on the counter, he swung his gaze back to her and found her pinching the sides of her pants, watching him. It was safe to consume a little Fern, as a treat.
“Can I get you anything? Ready to rebuild some furniture? Is this music okay with you? Should I put on something else? I can do that, if you want.”
Damn, she asked a lot of questions. He’d missed more than he’d answered. Was she nervous? Fern Walsh seemed too cool to be nervous. Was she just super nice? “It’s perfect. Do you like the Dead, then?”
She dropped her head back and swayed to the music. “They’re only my favorite band.”
“Mine too.”
“Then come dance with me.”
Static fizzed beneath his skin. “I don’t dance.”
“Yes, you do. Come here.” She reached for his hands, and in a panic, Elliott stepped back, bumping the table.
