“Hey,” I murmur, hugging her back stiffly, not knowing what to do with my arms. “Hey, Martin,” I add, nodding to the man behind her who’s leaning on the doorframe of my still open door.
“Hey, girl. What’s up with the pan?” Martin asks with a quirked brow, pointing at my makeshift weapon.
I give it a playful swing. “My weapon of choice.”
His forehead scrunches with mock disgust. “We gotta find you something… classier. It’s not fit for a Wrong girl.”
“My pan’s just fine,” I retort, placing it on the counter with a clatter, barely needing to move in this cramped space. I can reach practically everything in my apartment standing in one spot—a vivid reminder that freedom comes with a price.
They’ve been here multiple times and know the main rule, so they kick off their shoes and head to the bed which is the only real seating in here. Martin flops onto his stomach, grabbing a pillow and propping it under his chin, his deep blue pants sliding up to reveal orange socks with multicolored autumn leaves and a raccoon’s face popping out of them. A quirky splash of color that makes me smile despite myself. His endless supply of wild socks is a mystery I don’t bother solving.
Maeve leans against the wall, crisscrossing her legs, her edgy sweater and jeans a contrast to the polished Wrong daughter I grew up with.
I turn to fill the coffee maker with water. Its gurgle fills the quiet, and said quiet seems very heavy in such a small space with so many people.
It’s past nine p.m., but I know they’re here to stay for a while. Both of them have giant apartments, and it’s a mystery to me why we always hang out at my place, which is totally unfit for guests.
“How did Ezra let you out this late?” I ask Maeve, pulling three mismatched mugs from the cupboard.
“They’re working on some big, new project, so I’m on my own,” she replies, lifting her feet up and shaking them. She was probably jogging—an old habit of hers she picked back up recently.
I raise a brow, turning to Martin. “And how’d he letyougo then?”
“Always one call away,” he answers with a grin, shaking his phone in the air.
Another doorbell buzz startles me, nearly making me drop the pot. “Who’s that?” I ask in a sharp voice.
Martin jumps up, bounding to the door. “Food. I’m starving,” he declares with rather infectious enthusiasm. It’s his unique gift: everything he says sounds exciting.
I frown. “Check the peephole first,” I urge, my fingers gripping the counter. “This isn’t your fancy building, Martin. It’s not safe.”
He waves me off, swinging the door open without a glance, nearly giving me a heart attack. Pulling cash from his slim, demure wallet, he hands it to the delivery guy and leans against the doorframe.
“Thanks, doll,” he murmurs with a flirty sweetness, lingering by the door even after the guy turns to walk down the hallway.
When he closes the door, I raise my brows. “Really?”
“What?” He shrugs with a playful grin. “He was cute.”
“I thought you were dating someone,” I say, my tone softens when I catch a flicker of hurt in his eyes.
“Last month,” he replies, waving it off, but his smile looks strained. “Didn’t work out.”
“Sorry,” I whisper gently.
He brushes it off, bringing the food to the counter, crowding the tiny space even more. “All the more reason for the best comfort food ever,” he announces, unpacking the bags.
“It’s not pizza,” Maeve grumbles in a grouchy voice as she peers over.
“Chinese,” Martin counters, tossing her a box.
“Crab rangoon?” I ask hopefully while my stomach lets out a loud growl.
“Who do you take me for?” he retorts, pretending to be offended while he pushes a white box into my hands.
“Yes, Martin! You’re a god,” I exclaim, diving into the box in search of the crab-filled goodness.
“So I’ve been told,” he quips, back to his usual cheerful self.
