Page 28 of The Fake Out

“Soup?”

“Yeah, Ollie sent it over.”

“Ollie sent me soup? It’s Wednesday. It’s not soup day.”

It was never soup day.

Chris shrugged. “I guess he likes you.”

“How do you even know where I live?” Pulling my blanket tighter, I eyed him skeptically. “Are you stalking me?”

“Yes, I am. The soup is all part of my plan to lull you into a false sense of security.”

“Soup is the best you could do?”

“Also, I saw Ali at the café, and she asked me to check on you. She would have done it herself but she, and I’m quoting here, can’t stand you when you’re sick.”

My eyes narrowed. Ali and I would be discussing this later.

“I didn’t have anything else to do.” He jiggled the bag. “Can I come in?”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t feel good, and I brought you soup.”

Crossing my arms, I leaned against the doorjamb. “I appreciate the offer but… no.”

His smile deflated as he handed over the bag. “I get it. I thought you might want some company, but I understand. Hope you feel better. I’ll see you later.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turned and headed down the porch steps. Shoulders slumped, he walked slowly, stopping to kick a rock. He looked like he’d discovered someone had stolen his new puppy, his best friend was moving away, and no one remembered his birthday all at once.

“You’re pathetic.” Without turning around, he shrugged in response. I sighed loudly. “Fine. I guess you can come in.”

With a grin, his long legs carried him back to the door. “It works like a charm every time.”

Of course it did. “Before I let you in, remember we don’t have any filthy rich football players living here. Please adjust your expectations accordingly.”

“I see being sick hasn’t made you any less sarcastic.”

I stepped aside for him to pass and watched him give a cursory look around. Our home was clean but small and stuck firmly in the early 1990s, baby-blue carpet and fake wood paneling included.

Chris took two steps inside and stopped. “This is a lot of rabbits.”

He was right; there were a lot of rabbits. Granny didn’t do things by half. There were hundreds, lining shelves, tucked into crevices, covering tables. Rabbits were painted on the magazine rack and stenciled around the room as a border. There was framed rabbit art and a footstool Granny had covered in the same rabbit-themed fabric she’d made the curtains in.

“My grandma liked them,” I said, my voice a tad defensive.

“I’m not judging. Just observing.” He held his hand out. “Give me the soup.”

“I’m fine. You don’t even know where the kitch—”

“You look like a drowned kitten and about as strong as one. You sit.” He pointed to the couch. “I’ll get you soup.”

I scowled; he scowled right back. But his was scarier. If that’s what his opponents saw on game day, I bet they just tossed him the ball and walked off the field. I handed him the soup.

“I can find the kitchen. Sit.”

I sat.