“Mal,” I blurt, horrified. What the hell is this, buy one, get one ex day at Margo’s? First Sora’s ex, and now mine. Is Mercury in retrograde? Has someone read aloud from the Book of the Dead? None of this is okay.
“Hey, Jack-a-boo,” she says, using the nickname she gave me that I hate. “You ready for lunch?”
Lunch? Then it hits me: she’s been texting. Promising—or threatening, more like—to drop by. I’d ignored her, as I always do. She clearly failed to take the hint.
I’m staring at Sora, who glances from Mal to me and draws all the wrong conclusions.
“Mal, I—”
“I made reservations at your favorite place!” She turns and looks at Sora. “Oh,hello. Did I interrupt something?”
Yes, you did.
“Uh…” Sora’s eyes widen.
“I’m Mal,” she says, extending a black-gloved hand.
Sora looks like she wishes she could teleport out of here. “I’m Sora,” she says, and reaches out her own hand. Mal pinches Sora’s knuckle between her finger and thumb as if it’s toxic.
“Sara?”
“Sora,” I emphasize.
“Nice to meet you, Sadie.” Now I know she’s doing this on purpose. That wasn’t even close. Mal releases Sora’s hand.
“Uh, yeah. Well, I was just going.” Sora begins to slowly back away from my table. Wait. No. Don’t go. “Great to see you, Jack!” Sora cries, as she squeezes the handle of her cart so tightly her knuckles turn white.
“Sora, wait…” I want to explain. This isn’t… Mal isn’t… You’ve got the wrong idea. Completely. Utterly. Wrong. Come back. Please.
“Thanks for the tortes!” Sora calls over her shoulder with a little too much forced cheer. And just like the last day of fifth grade, she’s gone.
“Look what you’ve done,” I growl at Mal.
“What? Saved you from your sad little fangirl Sonar?”
“It’s Sora. S-O-R-A.”
“Whatever.” Mal fans her face with a black leather glove. She’s carrying a bag that cost more than my rent, and her coat is lined with real baby chinchilla, which says all you need to know about Mal. Her green eyes sparkle with mischief. Sheactually likes making me suffer. “Please, you’ve always got these desperate, pathetic littlegrocery storefans around you all the time.” She sniffs as she glances around the supermarket, making her disdain known.
“Well, I think we both know I wouldn’t be working here if it weren’t for you.” If it weren’t for Mal, I would be a pastry chef at a Michelin-star restaurant. Which I was, a year ago.
“Well, if you’d stayed engaged to me, you wouldn’t have to workat all.” She’s referring to her hotel heiress money and her offer of making me a kept man. Why—oh why—did I ever let her into my life? God, I regret that decision. Today and every day.
“Why are you here?”
“Lunch. I texted you.”
“And I didn’t respond.”
“And…?”
“And that means I didn’t agree to lunch.” I sigh.
“Does it?” Mal fakes innocence.
“And I can’t take a lunch break now. There’s no one else to run the bakery.” And even if there was, no way would I go to lunch with Mal. Never.
“Oh? Well, I just wanted to talk, anyway. I made some calls. About that bakery site you’re interested in.” She arches a perfectly penciled brow.
