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Janie snorted, and Rekha looked down at her phone when it buzzed, smiling briefly at whatever she saw before slipping it back into her pocket.

Then came the dreaded post-dinner cleanup.

"Harper, Cam, you're on dish duty," Isla announced, already gathering plates. The look on her face indicated that she'd definitely planned this ambush.

"What? Why us?" I demanded. "This feels targeted. This feels like a hate crime."

"Because everyone else helped cook or set up. You two showed up, ate, and contributed sparkling conversation. Now, you contribute labor."

"My conversation was extremely sparkling. That should count for something. I was basically a one-woman entertainment show. A comedic genius providing free content."

"It counts nothing for washing dishes. Kitchen's that way. Don't break anything expensive, and try not to kill each other."

"No promises on either front," I muttered.

Cam was already standing, accepting her fate, knowing that arguing with Isla was pointless. I followed her into the kitchen, which was roughly the size of my entire apartment and probably cost more than I'd make in five years combined.

"Okay," I said, surveying the mountain of plates and serving dishes and various culinary implements that had somehow multiplied when I wasn't looking. "You wash, I'll dry. This is non-negotiable."

Cam turned to look at me, one eyebrow raised in that annoyingly attractive way she had. "Why do I have to wash?"

"Because I called it. That's the social contract. Ancient law. Probably in the Constitution."

"I don't think the Founding Fathers had dish duty in mind when they wrote the Constitution."

"Shows what you know about the Founding Fathers. Very big on dish duty, those guys. It's in the deleted scenes."

"There are no deleted scenes of the Constitution."

"Again, you're really not up on your American history. Tragic, really."

Cam crossed her arms, and I tried very hard not to notice how the movement made her shoulders look even broader in that fitted black henley she was wearing. Tried and failed spectacularly. "Fine. Rock paper scissors."

"Best two out of three."

"One round. Winner picks their task."

"You're very confident for someone who's about to lose," I said, smiling mischievously.

"We haven't played yet."

"I'm manifesting your defeat. It's already happened in my mind. I'm very powerful. Very witch-like. You should be scared."

Cam's mouth did that almost-smile thing, and my stomach tightened with pleasure. "On three?"

"On three. Prepare to be destroyed."

We counted down. I threw rock. She threw paper.

"Ha!" Cam looked unreasonably pleased with herself, like she'd just won a championship instead of a round of rock paper scissors. "I dry, you wash."

I stared at my hand like it had betrayed me. "No. That doesn't count. You distracted me with your face."

I saw her resist a smile. "My face."

"Yes. It's very distracting. All structured and intense and—" I gestured vaguely at all of her, "—you know. Face-like. Very aggressive face behavior. I demand a rematch."

"You lost. Accept it with grace and dignity."