Page 120 of Revenge Puck

Declan: I don’t know, that depends

Juliette: You can’t slide into my messages at eight in the morning and say “we need to catch up.” That’s either code for “I’m dying” or “one of us is in trouble.”

He ignores me.

Declan: Ha ha. I’m near your place. I can be there in 10 minutes

Juliette: I’m leaving my apartment. You’re going to have to meet me at Third Street Roasters

Declan: Fine. 10

Ten.

He doesn’t add a smiley face. Doesn’t add a “see you soon.”

Huh.

I stash my phone into my tote and head out, locking my apartment behind me.

Third Street Roasters sits exactly where you would imagine it would—on the corner, all glass windows and exposed brick interior walls, with a chalkboard sign out front that reads:

our espresso is strong enough to survive playoff season

Ha. How punny.

I smile as I shove through the door, pleased when my usual table is unoccupied. Order in the app. Set up my stuff, spreading out as if I’m here for the long haul.

No sooner does my iced latte arrive than Declan strolls through like he’s entering a room full of rabid fans instead of a coffee shop—broad shoulders, baseball cap pulled low so no one recognizes him, scanning the room automatically.

A couple of heads turn.Of course they do.

He spots me and makes his way over, expression neutral but tight around the edges.

“Morning,” I say lightly.

“Morning.”

He doesn’t order anything. Drops his big body into the chair across from me.

Okay then.

I close my laptop halfway. “So. Am I about to find out I was adopted?”

My brother has the decency to smile at my joke. Then he leans back in his chair and props one sneakered foot up on the empty seat across from him, like he was raised in a barn instead of our mother’s very orderly house.

I stare at his foot until he finally drops it back to the floor.

He continues leaning back against the chair. “What exactly is going on between you and Aaron Bishop?”

No warm-up. No small talk.

A wave of déjà vu washes over me so fast it almost makes me dizzy—Declan’s face peering over the wall of my office cubicle a few weeks ago, eyes sharp, voice clipped, when he caught Aaron lingering nearby. The accusations and cold tone.

I feel my back bristling. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I’m serious, Jules.”

“So am I. You came all the way here to fact-check my love life when this could have been an email?”