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“Never.” He chuckled.
“I know you mean well…” Her gaze shifted side to side, as if she feared someone was about to sneak up on her in her own home. “But it’s probably safest for us both if you keep your distance.”
His forehead creased “What do you mean?”
“It’s complicated.”
“What’s complicated?”
She bit her lip. He couldn’t quite read her expression—and he was good at reading expressions. She was so alluringly odd, a riddle that needed solving. He liked unusual. He wasn’t exactly the portrait of a man himself. In fact, he’d frequently identified more with the awkward, blushing heroines in his sisters’ romance novels than the suave, roguish dukes they fell for.
“It really has nothing to do with you,” she said. “You seem like a nice enough person. It’s my problem, really.”
“Uh-oh. If you’re giving me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line, then perhaps we’ve gotten our wires crossed. I swear there’s no funny business happening here. It just seems like you could use a friend, and I happen to be pretty darn friendly.”
“A friend?”
“Yeah.”
Of all the silences during their conversation, this one stretched on the longest. He saw her mouth move a few times, but she didn’t speak for what felt like a solid minute.
“I should get back to work.”
“Oh. Okay.” His eyes zoomed in on the teardrop patch of freckles that seemed to amplify her sudden sadness.
“Goodbye, Bradley.”
“Right. Of course. Sorry for bothering you.”
The door he’d worked so hard to coax open abruptly closed.
“I’ll just leave the cookies out here for you, then,” he shouted through the panelling. “Except I, um, will need the Tupperware back. Apparently it’s the good stuff.”
Kneeling down, he placed the container on her front step. He walked away, feeling a little defeated.
Until he reached his door and looked back to see she’d taken the cookies inside.
He grinned. Devra liked him, whether she wanted to or not.
DEVRA
Devra had to admit Gladys—whoever this woman was—made a delicious chocolate chip cookie. She ate three of them in a row and rode the sugar high as she scoured the internet for more jokes to add to Squally’s repertoire.
“Why did the robot chicken cross the road?”
“Why?”
“Because it was programmed to do it.”
“Excellent delivery!”
“Thank you.” The cloud grinned. “You sound like you’re in a good mood, Devra. Are you feeling happy today?”
“No, not really.” Devra frowned. Squally was usually more accurate at detecting emotions than this. Are you stressed, Devra? Are you tired? Are you anxious? These were the sound bites of December. She tapped on her keyboard, checking for an error in the VA’s sound-recognition protocol. “Squally, enter analysis mode.”
The cloud’s smile straightened into a thin line, and its voice dropped an octave. “Entering analysis mode.”
“Why did you think I was happy?”
