Page 18 of Infernal Affairs

I imagine, for once, not hiding from the feeling.

I don’t sleep much that night, but I don’t need to. Tomorrow, for the first time in ages, I will have something to look forward to.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll ask for more.

CHAPTER 6

DAISY

Iread Enoch’s message five times. I don’t even notice the mug of chamomile tea slowly seeping condensation onto my jeans, balanced as it is against my thigh. My thumb hovers over the screen, useless, all thoughts shorting out except for a single shrieking chorus: he wants me to come over. For brunch, or tarts, or “consultation,” but—he wants me to come over. I squeeze the phone so hard the little PopSocket cracks.

We stand at the precipice, it singsongs, and I am ready to dive.

It takes approximately thirty seconds for me to combust with hope, panic, and preemptive disappointment, which is my usual sequence when it comes to Enoch. For someone with demonic blood, he telegraphs less than a newly invented language. Entire wars have been launched with more signals than I’ve wrung out of him in six months. But this? This is... something.

I text back so fast my fingers blur:

“I’ll be there! Save me a cold tart!”

Then I double over, forehead pressed to my knees, and scream silently into my shins. Because how many hearts is too many in a text? Definitely not one. One is restrained, classic, almost platonic compared to my finals-week binge of sending him the entire anatomical range of Unicode hearts. But now it’s there, the digital equivalent of tattooing his initials inside a valentine. I slap the phone down on the couch and let my limbs noodle into the upholstery, staring at the water stains on my ceiling, grateful for an excuse not to move.

Enoch wants to see me. Tomorrow. On purpose. Not to help with town business, or because my lunch ran late and he just happened to be passing the bakery windows. He wants me for no other known reason except to spend time in the same room and maybe—my pulse ticks up—see what happens when the air between us finally catches fire.

I have approximately twelve hours to prepare.

I consider calling Clover, my boss, my mentor, my most dangerous enabler. But if I call, I will lose my nerve, and if I lose my nerve, I will never put on pants, and I will die in this living room, curled up in a sweatpants-wrapped torus of longing and self-doubt.

I text instead:

EMERGENCY: What does one wear when attempting to seduce a demon with baked goods? Need assistance ASAP.

The typing bubble appears after three full minutes, which means she is probably hunting the perfect meme to accompany her response.

Clover: Come over. Bring wine.

I lurch into motion. My joints have already gone to pudding, but that’s no match for adrenaline, and I slap together an overnight tote with the essentials: mascara, deodorant, every sticky-note affirmation I’ve ever written, a sample box of the new lemon-polenta cookies, and a bottle of whatever peach wine I have left from last year’s canning debacle. I wrangle my hair into a tolerable braid and try not to look directly into my closet, which is a portal to humiliation and existential despair.

Clover’s place is a cottage like mine, except that hers pulses with witchy intent and smells like a riot of botanicals instead of cheap coffee and the flavorless undertones of my own panic. She throws the door open and envelops me in a hug that smells faintly of honey, black pepper, and a perfume I’ve decided must be called “Dreadful Secrets.”

She ushers me to the kitchen table, where she is already dissecting a roll of shortbread dough and not even pretending to do it for a recipe test. She is the only person I can trust to handle a crisis at the precise intersection of romance and carbohydrates.

“Soooo,” she says, stretching out the syllable until it’s almost a song, “tomorrow is the big day?”

“He invited me.” I try for nonchalance, but I am vibrating hard enough to shake the salt cellar.

Clover cackles. “Did you finally frighten him into submission? Or is he just hungry?”

“Both?”

She gives me a knowing side-eye that says, I taught you well. “What’s the play?”

I comb my fingers through my bangs and feel my ears burning. “This is either the final boss level of friend-zoning, or it’s a date where we talk about the latest psychotherapy news, baked goods, or my undying love. It’s a toss-up.”

Clover shrugs. “It’s Enoch. Sometimes the conversation is the point. He likes the layers. And I know for a fact that he likes you. Even if he’s too pigheaded to admit it.”

She’s right. If Enoch had a love language, it would be subject-jumping and intellectual banter. It’s one of the things I love about him.

“I want to look... good,” I say, and then, “But not like I’m trying too hard.”