Page 27

Unfortunately, the wasps wither at the sight of him, dressed simply in an off-white tee and his usual torn jeans that show flashes of his tattooed thighs. The T-shirt is a bold choice for what he’s doing—already elbow deep in grossness, black nitrile gloves encasing his fingers as he works on stripping the carcass of a goat. It doesn’t smell like death, but there’s still the sharp tang of blood and chemicals in the air that turns my stomach.

His head snaps up as I walk in, flashing a lopsided smile that annoyingly tickles my insides.

So maybe I’m still a little attracted to him. Who wouldn’t be? He’s muscular, tall, has nice eyes. Objectively, he checks a lot of boxes.

“I got you this,” I babble, keen to be rid of the cold cup that’s making my fingers go numb. I step forward to hand it to him as he spins in his saddle seat to face me.

I should have sensed Delphine’s unbridled delight, should have heard her giggle before she stuck out her foot, hooking it around my ankle.

I stumble, clipping my hip on the corner of the desk and launching the icy concoction of sweet cream and coffee all over Sunday—with me following shortly after it.

With a gasp, I collide with a wall of muscle, landing right in Sunday’s lap.

“You fucking bitch,” I hiss at Delphine.

“What?” Sunday bites out, swearing under his breath as he looks down at his ruined shirt.

When I push myself off his lap, I realize my position—on my knees, in between his legs.

Mortification sets my face on fire, and I’m struck with the need to fix it, fix it now.

“Sorry, Sunny, not you,” I squeak, before muttering goodbye, wench under my breath, closing off my connection with Delphine. I hear a scoff of indignation before she vanishes from this plane of existence.

Snatching a roll of heavy-duty paper towel, I tear some off and try to wipe the coffee from his legs—his jeans will stain if I don’t get it off quickly.

“Bellamy—”

“I’m still clumsy, I’m so⁠—”

“Bellamy, stop⁠—”

“It’s my fault!” I babble, not paying attention to him—too busy erratically trying to mop up the liquid and hoping it doesn’t stain his clothes.

“Bels…” A low groan rumbles out of Sunday’s throat and I freeze, suddenly realizing where my hands are.

And what they’re rubbing.

Oh my god. I’ve just been rubbing his dick like a magic lamp.

I feel my eyes grow comically wide and quickly scramble to stand, smashing the top of my head into Sunday’s face. Pain blooms and I hear a sickening crunch.

“Fuck!” he cries as I slip in a puddle of coffee, tumbling backward and landing on my ass.

To my horror, blood is pouring out of his nose and dripping onto his chest.

I jump up in a panic and wrench off more paper towels, slotting my knee between his legs, cradling his head with one hand and gently pressing the towel to his nose with the other.

I’m going to kill Delphine.

Well, kill her more, if that’s possible.

Our faces are mere inches apart, close enough that I can see his pupils contracting and expanding. It’s odd, but I can’t think about it now, not when my heart is trying to break out of my rib cage.

Sunday reaches up and takes my hand gently in his, pulling it away and taking over staunching the blood flow.

“So, you either really hated those strawberries or really loved them,” he says, his voice muffled behind the wad of paper towel.

I slump back onto the edge of the desk, the tension leaking out of my shoulders as I bury my face in my hands, groaning at the ridiculousness of it all. A weak laugh slips out as I work up enough courage to uncover my face.