Page 32 of Spiced!

“I do not—” I actually did. Shit. Fine. “Maybe Saturday.”

“Of course Saturday. Are you going to actually talk to him this time, or are you going to leave another third grade note and flee into the night?”

“I didn’t flee.”

“You left before he got off the bar.”

“I had an early morning.”

“It’s the weekend, you lovable idiot. The only early activity you had this morning was making coffee and probably getting sat on by that throw pillow of a pet you keep.”

“Hey! Show Puck a little respect. Besides, how did you know—”

“You complain about him sitting on your face first thing in the morning every time we talk. Literally, every time. I’m observant. You know this.”

“Like a surveillance camera.”

“Don’t forget it.”

Puck reappeared in the kitchen without the sponge, which was now somewhere in the apartment doing whatever sponges did when ferrets cached them. He climbed onto my shoulder and settled—my shoulder, where he could nuzzle my neck, was his favorite nesting spot.

“I asked him to save my booth.”

Tasha put down whatever she was chopping. “Your booth?”

“It’s where I sit.”

A pause. “And he knew what you meant?”

“Apparently.”

“Brendan.” The chopping didn’t resume. I was in serious trouble. “That man paid attention to where you put your perky little ass in a crowded bar.”

“It’s just a few text messages, Tasha, not the key to the Mayan calendar.”

“It’s thoughtful text messages from a man who was paying attention.” I heard her make a few aggressive chops. I quietly sent sympathies to the poor vegetable family of her current victim. “You’re allowed to let that mean something. People can mean something to you, B.”

“I’m not saying it doesn’t mean something.”

“You’re saying, ‘It’s just a text message,’ in the voice you use when you’re telling yourself something doesn’t mean anything. I’m going to scold you for this until you relent. It will go easier on you if you simply admit I’m right.”

CHOP!

I craned my neck and looked at Puck.

“I have a voice for that?” I asked.

“You have a specific voice for most things. Eight years, Brendan. I’ve known you longer than most inmates serve time.”

“What a flattering description of our friendship.”

CHOP! CHOP!

She didn’t so much as chuckle.

“Go Saturday. Sit in your booth. Let him find you there.”

“That’s the plan.”