Page 15 of Friends to WHAT?!

But, you know, at least he doesn’t drop me, right?

Chapter Seven

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Things are either what they seem, or not. You’re welcome.

Leora

Wolfe carries me steadily all the way to the door of Blackwood Barb, his tattoo shop, while Almond and Sterne bicker behind us about video angles and “the cinematic experience of an abduction.”

I spend the time wondering if I’m going to be back to Hunter’s Moon in time for my delivery or not, and if this detour in my day justifies ordering food from the diner in town for dinner. I’ve just decided that it does when Wolfe sends my stomach hurtling as he spins to address his posse.

“You two can go now. I’m going to talk to Leora privately. Alone. Without you.”

Almond’s frown reflects in the tattoo shop window. “But… we’re helping.”

“I can handle it from here.”

“But–”

“He’s handling it,” Sterne interrupts, nodding at Wolfe. “We had our fun. Now he can have the pleasure of dealing with the consequences on his own.”

And then? Theydoleave. Almond mutters complaints with every step away from us while Sterne hums and occasionally nods. I watch them go, stomach fluttering as they get farther away and Wolfe and I get more alone. Together. Just us.

He fishes jangling keys out of his pocket to unlock the door to his studio, and we become even more alone as he steps into thebuilding. Him, and me, and the hum of the air conditioner while the door swings silently shut.

“One second,” he murmurs. “I’ll put you down by the couch so you’ll have a safe landing if you stumble.” His waiting room swirls as he turns, showing me nooks and crannies I’ve never seen before—except for that time that my curiosity overcame me and I googled Wolfe’s business, anyway, but that was a gin-induced bit of terrible idea on a lonely night, so it hardly counts. That same night I looked up his brother’s bar, my ex-boyfriend’s mother’s laundromat two towns over, and the obituary for my childhood crush’s great-aunt. After that, I cried for two hours because the great-aunt had stars engraved on her headstone, and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Then I woke up in the morning with my head pulsing to a photo of Amia waiting on my phone, and I vowed to never drink that much ever again. Because how in the world could I ever thinkanythingwas more beautiful than Amia Blackwood? Ridiculous.

I am unexpectedly reminded of her beauty, and my reason for alcohol limitations, when Wolfe takes us into a different room. I quickly ascertain that we’re in his office when my face orients with the wall, which is covered nearly entirely in photos of Amia and her artwork. Shock spreads when I find my own artwork among her little-kid drawings and adorably chubby cheeks. Envelopes framed to show off quick, last-minute doodles intersperse the space, and more than a few neon sticky notes with equally simple sketches are stuck straight to the wall. The sticky notes, at least, congregate mostly behind his desk, where it’s clear that he opened a letter, found the drawing, and popped it in whatever free space there was on the closest wall to him.

The envelopes, though… those took time. Energy.Frames.

And they’re up there, nestled within treasured memories with his daughter—his greatest love.

My heartsqueezes.

I have to admit… I’m having a hard time reconciling his current actions with all of the evidence showing how very clearly he values me and our friendship. It’s not making much sense. At all. Even a little.

“Going down,” Wolfe warns before bending to set me on my own two feet. I’m grateful for his smart thinking when I immediately fall backward onto a lush, blush-pink couch. I land on emerald pillows with a puff and blink up at my captor.

He nibbles his lip, and his pointy canine leaves a dent in the soft pink even after it’s gone. His dark brows draw together, and his hands travel from his hips to his head to his sides and back, restless and unsure, a golden seal winking at me from the envelope he holds with every new place they land.

I transfer my blinking to the winking gold—to the letter I’d not realized he was holding. The letter I wrote him. The letter denoting my non-consent of precisely this situation.

Wandering, my eyes find similar envelopes in places of honor, and I gulp.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, regaining my eyes as well as my disbelief.

“You’re sorry?” I echo.

He nods, clutching at his letter—my letter. “Yes. I’m sorry about this, and about Almond and Sterne, and about… I don’t know. Existing, maybe. I just wasn’t sure… and then Amia suggested… and then Sterne said… and thenAlmond… and then I was there, you know?” He drops to his knees to stare at me eye-to-eye so earnestly. I almost want to tell him thatYes, of course, I absolutely do know, and all is forgiven.

Except.

“I think perhaps I would know a lot better if you were to finish a sentence. Or a thought. Or an explanation, most preferred.” I keep my voice as gentle as I can manage, not entirely wanting to hurt a person that I’m beginning to thinkisn’t as Real Life Man as I may have assumed, but he flinches as if I’ve hit him anyway.

I wince through his resulting apology.