Page 76 of Spiced!

He dook’d.

“And before you start—yes, Adrian’s the one who reminded me to check if she was eating. You don’t need to look so smug about it.”

He dook’d again, differently, a bit lower in pitch. Then he turned in two complete circles and sat back down, which was his version of agreeing to disagree, which was the closest Puck ever came to conceding a point.

Out of sheer boredom—or stupidity—I checked the group chat one more time before bed.

Alan had added a new poll that asked, On a scale of Sunday Lunch to Actively Dating, where are we?

The voting options were: Sunday Lunch, Texting Daily (Promising), Something Is Happening, and Actively Dating (Confirm Y/N).

Tasha had voted Something Is Happening. She then added, Trying to Procreate, which earned several rounds of bawdy comments from the group.

Marcus had voted Actively Dating (Confirm Y/N) and had added a comment that read, Based on available data, I believe we are past the Something Is Happening threshold. The grocery purchase alone suggests intentionality.

Alan had voted Something Is Happening but had added a note, Upgrading to Actively Dating pending Saturday confirmation. Holding position.

I shook my head, failed to stifle a laugh, and closed the chat.

Chapter 20

Adrian

The bread was perfect, which I took as a sign that the remainder of the week intended to behave itself. I’d been running the morning shift on my own more than usual lately, mostly because Doña Carmen had been favoring her right wrist in a way she hadn’t mentioned. I knew better than to bring it up. Stubborn as a mule, she mentioned things on her own schedule or not at all. Pushing her produced the scowl of a woman who had survived seventy-three years without anyone’s input and saw no need to accept it now.

I’d noticed her favoring her wrist three times. I’d filed it three times. The filing system was getting full.

I texted Brendan a photo of the bread at six forty-three.

He responded at seven-oh-two with a photo of Puck sitting on a folder of what I recognized as the tapir imaging. Puck sprawled, legs stretched to their fullest, with the settled confidence of an animal who had correctly identified the most inconvenient location possible and intended to occupy it.

Another incoming text vibrated my phone.

Puck’s Dad: He’s helping.

Me: He’s a professional.

Puck’s Dad: He’s been moved twice and returned both times. I’ve accepted the situation.

I grinned at my screen for a second, then went back to the bread.

My phone rang at seven-fifteen, which was Abuela, because seven-fifteen was always Abuela. She called after her novela and before her stories, in the narrow window she had designated years ago for checking that I was alive and had eaten.

“¿Ya comiste?” she asked, before hello. Have you eaten?

“Buenos días to you, too, Abuela. Si. I ate.”

“What?”

“Bread.”

“Bread is not breakfast. Bread is what you sell. ¿Y proteína?” A pause, and then, with the casualness of a woman who had raised a child and a criminal suspect simultaneously, “You sound happy. Why are you happy at seven in the morning? No one is happy at this hour unless something happened.”

I had told her nothing about Brendan. I want to be clear about that. I had breathed not one word.

“Nothing happened,” I said. “I’m just having a good week.”

A silence came through the line that had texture to it. This was the specific quiet of a woman savoring newly acquired ammunition to be fired at a more convenient time. “Mm-hmm,” she said. “A good week. ¿Tiene nombre, tu good week?”