I’m rinsing out my mug when I hear footsteps behind me. Emily steps into the kitchen, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and I hate how my pulse quickens at the sight of her.
“Want a coffee?” I ask, tipping my chin towards the machine.
She scrunches her nose, absolutely horrified. “I don’t drink coffee.”
I blink at her. “You don’t?”
“I could go for a cup of tea, though,” she says, like it’s a perfectly normal preference.
I huff out a snort. “Fucking tea. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised since you like sour gummies. Your taste buds are seriously messed up.”
She laughs, the sound soft but bright. “They’re not messed up. They’re just refined.”
“Yeah, that’s one word for it,” I mutter, already grabbing the kettle, because apparently I’m the kind of man who makes tea now.
“Hey,” she says, coming up beside me and poking her finger into my side. “Don’t be hating on my tastebuds. What did they ever do to you?”
“They assaulted my senses, that’s what. I’m still emotionally recovering from the fact you actually like sour gummies.”
She lets out another laugh. “So I presume there are no tea bags in this house?”
“They are in the cupboard just there,” I say, pointing in that direction.
This time, she gasps. “Let me get this straight, you have a problem with people who drink tea, yet you stock teabags in your kitchen. That’s a little hypocritical, don’t youthink?”
“I said tea drinkers have messed-up taste buds; I never claimed to have an issue with them, per se.” I definitely don’t have an issue with her.
“Hmm,” she hums.
“I respect tea drinkers, Emily. I just don’t understand them. It’s like people who run marathons for fun. I accept they exist, I just choose not to relate. I simply provide tea the same way hospitals provide crutches, because clearly some people need help.”
“What if I told you I enjoy marathons?”
“Then I’d say that maybe your weirdness spreads way beyond your taste buds.”
“You didnotjust say that,” she shrieks, bumping my arm with her shoulder.
“Honestly, I’m starting to wonder if I should’ve asked for a character reference before you moved in.” When she gasps again, my shoulders shake with silent laughter. “My neighbour brought the tea over, so she had something to drink while she was here.” I side-eye her as I speak, and I don’t miss her tiny wince. It’s barely there, but enough to make me think she misunderstood.
I clear my throat. “She’s in her seventies, Emily.”
Her head snaps towards me as her pretty eyes widen. “Oh. Well—” She lifts her mug, shrugging innocently. “—I guess we all have our kinks.”
I choke on a laugh. “Jesus. She used to babysit Lil’ Peach when I was working. I never fucked her.” The thought alone is enough to make me shudder.
Emily grins smugly. “Hey, I’m not judging. Some men like their women … seasoned.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I grumble, turning to leave the room. I don’t miss her laugh as I do. She seems delighted, and far too pleased with herself.
Touché, Emily. Touché.
When I come in from the garage, something hits me immediately. The house smells insane, even better than before.
I devoured the platter of sandwiches Emily made us for lunch and scoffed down a handful of cookies, but that was hours ago. I’m starved again.
I step into the hallway, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. Voices drift from the kitchen, one of them tiny. Is Lil’ Peach in there with her?
“Gentle, sweetie,” I hear Emily say. “Gentle means slow, remember?”
