Page 30 of XO Karma

Amara narrows her eyes, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards. “Fine. Some red ones too.”

“Why don’t you have a kid?” Zuri asks me.

“Zuri!” Amara chastises, and I laugh.

“It’s okay,” I tell Amara, turning my attention to Zuri. “I’m more fun auntie material.”

And there’s no way I could bring a child into this world with the profession I do.

“Sorry, honey. Mommy can’t read you a book tonight, she’s busy setting up stink bombs in the corrupt mayor’s car.”

“Can you be my fun auntie?” Zuri asks, eyes hopeful.

“You already have three aunts,” I remind her, and she rolls her eyes.

“And now I’ll have four,” Zuri says, and Val barks a laugh.

“Well, we can’t argue with that logic now, can we?” Amara asks, sending me a teasing wink, and a smile breaks across my face. My heart squeezes, feeling not only accepted but chosen. It’s all so very… normal.

A day-mare flashes before me of Amara and Val having to tell Zuri her fun Aunt Lily went and got herself killed by being an absolute idiot.

The downed pancakes threaten a reappearance.

At the top of my to-do list, I add: be more careful.

The waitress arrives at our table, a fresh tray of drinks in hand. She extends an arm with the mimosa at the same moment I reach to take it, knocking it out of her grasp, and it dumps out all over my chest. Again?!

“Shit,” she blurts as I catch the glass in my lap before it shatters to the floor. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say, and she plucks the wet flute from my fingers. “It was my fault. Truly.” Was it my fault? Maybe. But I also don’t want this poor girl feeling like a screw-up the rest of the day, because it’s really not that serious.

“Let me get something to clean this,” she says, disappearing, and I turn to Val, Amara, and Zuri, who burst into laughter.

“See!” Zuri howls. “Now that was fun!”

“Hilarious,” I say with a mock eye roll, the cool liquid dripping between my breasts as I grab my tote and stand. “I’ll be right back.”

Inside the single person bathroom, I analyze the damage in the mirror. Why do I keep wearing white? Once again, the fabric is transparent.

Tugging off the silk shirt, I glance around for a hand dryer. Failure. Only paper towels.

Double fuck.

I pull a few from the dispenser and pat my chest. I wet a few more and wipe off my skin to ensure it won’t feel sticky later, then toss them in the trash.

Grabbing my bag, I rummage through it. The reason I always keep a massive tote on hand is for situations like this. It’s my emergency kit. Require a needle and thread? I got you. Heartburn medication? What brand? Need my mask and dagger at a moment’s notice? They’re there.

At the bottom of the bag, soft fabric brushes my hand.

“Yes!” I cheer, pulling it out triumphantly. My eyes land on Aster’s black T-shirt crumpled in my grasp, and my heart drops. “Shit.”

I glance at the white soggy fabric on the counter, stained with orange, then to the dry one in my hand. The logical part of my brain knows going back out there in my mimosa disasterpiece is not an option. But the other side says wearing this is asking for trouble.

It’s just a damn shirt, not a proposal acceptance.

A sigh shudders out of me. I’ll put the scrap of cloth on, and the second I get home, I’ll burn it.

Holding my breath, I throw it over my head, cursing when I’m enveloped by that same leathery scent from his bedroom.