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“It’s good,” I say with a small shrug, avoiding her gaze.
“It’s good?”
“Yeah…”
“Ha!” She thrusts her pointer finger at my chest as if she’s just caught me. “How did you getgoodcoffee from Albina Press on a Thursday morning”
Shit.I shrug one shoulder with an Aly level of casual. “I bought it.”
“Youbought it? Nuh-uh. Try again. I know it’s coffee bitch’s shift.”
I scrunch my nose and she laughs maniacally as she pokes me in the chest again.
“I don’t know what you think you know.”
“Oh, I know you didn’t buy that coffee.” She pokes me again as she bounces from one foot to the other in a weird little hip-shaking dance.
I bat away her finger. “Will you stop that?”
“I also know I heard a rather gentlemanly voice this morning outside my bedroom door.”
Damn her crazy elvish-level hearing and proximity to the front door. I press my lips together.
“I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”
“I’m not insinuating anything,” Caro says, shaking her head with a wide Cheshire cat grin as she keeps bouncing. “I’m saying that I think our little Fayebuggot some dick!”
“Oh my god,” I say, taking a deep drink of my coffee. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Am I?”
“Yep.”
“True or false: you and a Mister Freddica Flux were spotted taking body shots off each other at a certain strip club yesterday.”
I arch an eyebrow but say nothing. He took one shot, maybe two, and I may have taken more than that. But it was in good fun. And honestly, I remember the shots less than I remember watching Zeke get that waitress’s number before he left without saying goodbye.
“Well?”
“True. You were there.”
“Yeah, I was.”
“Do you want me to just tell you—”
“I’m on a roll.” She’s bouncing in a circle now, and something tells me if I tried to stop her she’d lose her center of gravity and topple over. “True or false: you and a Mister Fredlizabeth Flux were then spotted getting cozy in a booth in the Space Room.”
“True.You were there, Caro.”
“Yeah I was.”
“I hate to burst your bubble—”
“And did you or did you not bring a Mister Fredphanie Flux home with you last night! For a grown-up sleepover?”
“Yes, he slept over,” I say, walking out of the kitchen and toward the living room.
“Ow-ow-owwwwww!” she squeals, following me into the living room and wiggling around in a circle. Until she stops. And stares at the sofa. Where there’s still a pillow and blanket.
