But mostly?
I felt something suspiciously close to warmth curling behind my ribs.
Because if this was what I thought it was, if this entire thing was her trying to snap me out of my funk with food and ambiance and whatever chaos she’d whipped up, I was dangerously close to being... touched.
In afeelingsway.
Which, frankly, was horrifying.
I closed the planner gently, like sealing away a piece of her I hadn’t been meant to see. My thumb hovered on the cover, worn at the corners, sticky note barely hanging on, her name scribbled in bubbly letters inside a small heart on the first page.
She hadn’t meant for me to find it.
And I didn’t want her to be embarrassed.
She was so bold most of the time, it was easy to forget how muchthoughtwent into everything she did. How deliberate she was about making people feel welcome, seen… or lured, apparently.
“Operation: Snack Attack,” I muttered, grinning.
And that’s when the front door swung open, and I turned, slowly, like someone caught in the act of defusing a bomb with a spatula.
Fifi stood in the doorway, arms overloaded with paper grocery bags, hair wind-tangled, cheeks pink from the humid summer air.
She froze.
I froze.
We stared at each other.
Then her gaze darted to the desk.
Toher planner.
To my hand.
Her eyes widened.
I lifted my hand like I was surrendering a weapon. “This was open. I didn’t—”
“You read it.” Her voice was high, strangled. “Oh my God.”
“Barely.”
“That wasprivate.”
“I figured that out after Phase Four.”
She stomped inside, bags rustling. “I’m going to die. Actually die. Like, this is how it ends. Death by mortification. Put it on my headstone:Lured a man with snacks. Died ashamed.”
I reached out and took two of the bags from her arms to save her from toppling into the ficus. She looked like she was ready to set herself on fire out of sheer embarrassment.
“Fifi,” I said quietly.
She groaned, hiding behind her hands.
“Please don’t say it. Please don’tteaseme. Just let me dissolve into the floor. That’s all I ask.”
“I’m not teasing.”
