Is that so?
“We’re friends now?” I ask. Unlikely.
He shoots me a look, one that’s paired with those stupid eyes that make it hard not to cave. “Don’t insult me. Once my mouth has touched yours, we’re friends.”
I bark a laugh. “You must have many friends, Mr. Forkerro.”
He makes a mocking face, but starts piling food onto plates anyway. My stomach grumbles at the smell. I feel like I haven’t eaten in three days, but I vividly remember shovelling nuggets in my mouth at record speed last night. That’s a talent of mine. I’m The Nugget Destroyer. There was ketchup, too. Lots of it. My favourite.
I pull out one of the chairs at my small kitchen table and slide into it, watching him unpack each box while I hold my head up with the heel of my hand.
We eat together, at the table I never sit at, and talk as effortlessly as real friends would. Maybe he’s right. Maybe wearefriends now. He isn’t the worst company, and he forces me to have fun, which I don’t typically let myself do. Maybe he’s good for me.
Not good for my headaches, though.
“I’ll get out of your hair,” he says when we’re done, getting to his feet to box up the food. He starts loading my fridge with the leftovers, and I don’t argue. I’ll eat that shit for days with a smile on my face.
“Thank you for breakfast,” I say, standing to walk him out.
He flashes a wink over his shoulder, shutting the fridge door. He steps forward then, his hand going to my bicep, walking right into my space. He presses a kiss to my forehead like it’s routine. Like he does something that sweet every day.
I’m stunned into a full-blown stillness as he vanishes from the room. I ignore the stupid feeling in my stomach that stirs awake at such a simple gesture. It’s been a while since I’ve had any male attention remotely close to this. It’s just my body reacting before my brain. That’s all.
Again, maybe he’s good for me.
I follow him to the front door, about to remind him I’m starting a string of night shifts, but my eyes catch on the edge of the coffee table and I stop dead in my tracks.
The corner of his face peeks up at me from one of the skewed papers in the pile, smiling and proud.
My throat goes dry.
Carter shoves his feet into his shoes and turns, pausing when my eyes snap back up to him. His gaze drifts to the pile of his past discrepancies, all of those sins he committed before we knew each other. He offers the saddest, most disappointed smile I have ever seen. Shrugs a bit, as if it’s totally normal to find a case file about you in someone else’s home.
I feel like I just kicked a doberman puppy.
“Carter,” I whisper, stepping toward him, a plea in my voice.
“I hope you didn’t find what you were looking for,” he says, shrugging again. “I’ll see you in a couple of days, Red.”
“Carter, wait?—”
He smiles at me, no teeth and no sparkle in his eyes. “It’s no big deal.”
Then, he’s gone, the door closing behind him.
But he’s wrong. It is a big deal.
“Shit,” I hiss, running my hand over my forehead.
I’m too hungover for this.
I race back to my room, rip my phone off the charger, and call Whitney as fast as humanly possible. Autumn’s working today, so Whit’s my only option for quick advice. It takes way too many rings, but she finally answers, sounding a bit out of breath.
“Whit,” I say quickly.
“Hold on, I’m at the gym,” she says. “If I’m gasping for air, it’s because cardio is the devil.”
“I fucked up.”
