Page 21 of The Best Shot

6:47 a.m. Maybe two hours of sleep, tops. Too early for this level of reflection, and too late to pretend last night hadn’t happened.

I got up, found my jeans on the floor and pulled them on. My shirt was somewhere downstairs, living room probably, which meant we’d left evidence scattered across two floors of Ava’s house. I took a chance on the guest room dresser and came up with a T-shirt folded in the top drawer, Cubs logo across the chest. Not ideal, but better than walking into a full kitchen bare-chested at seven in the morning.

Halfway down the stairs I ran into Nico coming up, coffee mug in hand. He slowed when he saw me, took in the logo without a word about it, and lifted a brow.

“So you finally folded.”

I stopped where I was. “Folded?”

“To group pressure.” He leaned against the banister, nowhere to be, apparently. “You let them pick a woman for you and everything.”

I blinked.

“Sophie,” he clarified, but the glint in his eye said he was absolutely fucking with me.

“Right.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “No harm in humoring them.”

“Just playing along then?”

“Uh-huh.”

Nico smiled like he could smell the bullshit from three miles away. “Hell of a run, though. Whatever you want to call it.”

“I blame you for this.”

“What’d I do?”

“You let them unionize.”

Nico grinned. “Nobody made you answer that group chat.”

“I’m Southern, not godless,” I said. “I send thank-you cards, I don’t wear my hat indoors, and I answer my phone.”

“I’m Southern too,” Nico said mildly. He stepped past me on the stairs. “Coffee’s fresh. Good luck.”

Apparently the conversation was over. I watched him go, then finished the walk down.

Annie was still asleep on the couch, blanket tucked around her, snoring, completely undisturbed. The bottles were gone from the floor. The rug looked fine. My shirt was folded on the armchair.

Yasmine had gotten up before me, cleaned Ava’s living room, folded my shirt, and disappeared. All before seven in the morning.

I traded the Cubs shirt for my own, left the borrowed one over the arm of the chair, and went to the kitchen. Poured a cup of coffee and tried to find the version of myself that knew how to act normal. That guy had clocked out sometime around two a.m. and I needed him back before the rest of the house woke up.

Truth was, and I was trying to be honest with myself, which is never easy at damn near seven, I’d known exactly what I was doing last night. I’d seen how complicated it could get. But I’d told myself a nice little story—two friends, no big deal, keep it light. I’d believed that story right up until she breathed my name and I realized I was in some amount of trouble.

I’d always liked the shape of my name in her mouth. Noticed it the first time she ever said it, years ago, and quietly filed it away where I put most things about Yasmine, under Things That Felt Too Good.

Footsteps on the stairs, and then she was in the doorway, fully dressed, her hair set in two thick ropes. She looked like she’d slept eight hours, but I knew better.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

“Coffee smells good.”

“Just made it.”

“I saw.” She crossed to the pot, poured a cup, added cream and sugar without looking at me.