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Brielle
It was like she had a sixth sense for these types of things. I let it go to voicemail, but she called again. I ignored that call, too, and bent over to look at the chicken wings in the fryer.
I hadn’t heard from her in over a year. I had no desire to hear from her ever again, and last I’d heard, she’d found a guy who happened to be a hedge fund manager in New York.
The air fryer dinged, and I opened the fridge and pulled out a salad I’d made.
“Hey, Daisy. Dinner is ready.”
“I’ll be right down.” Her voice rang through the apartment and completely wiped away the bad taste I had from Brielle’s calls.
I put the chicken wings and salad on the table and glanced toward the stairs.
Daisy bounded down the steps with Purrlock in her arms, and I was shocked.
She set the cat down and smiled. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Purrlock doesn’t like people.”
Daisy chuckled. “Then what does that make me?”
Her eyes landed on the table, and she grinned. “Now that is what I’m talking about. How many wings did you make?”
“I think thirty.”
She snickered. “And I could probably eat them all.”
“Just so you know, I ate every piece of fudge you gave me.”
“Really? In two days? I’m impressed. That was a full batch.”
I chuckled, nodding my head. “Keep feeding me like that, and what you saw earlier will vanish.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind. You know, in a completely platonic way.”
“Right. Exactly.”
She took a seat as I poured some water into her glass.
“Did you want a beer or anything?”
She nodded. “Hey, how did that gingerbread beer from your brother work out?”
I grabbed two bottles out of the fridge and set them down on the table.
“Not well.” I laughed. “It was the worst beer I’ve ever had in my life.”
She gasped. “You didn’t tell him that, did you?”
“No. I softened it.”
I wanted to tell her I worked on my delivery method after she’d mentioned I was too direct, but I kept that to myself and took a sip of beer as she dug into the chicken wings.
She took a bite of chicken. “Mmm. So good. These are from the bar.”
“Yeah. I tend to order them from the bar more times than I care to admit.”
“They are addicting.” She nodded. “So, I’m getting a pretty clear picture of who Hunter is. You spend your days at the gym, working off stress, and then you come home and gorge on chicken wings. You’ve got it made.”
