Page 8 of Sweet Ruin

Then she gallivants off back into the kitchen to check on the gingersnaps that the law firm of ambulance chasers paid an exorbitant price to bulk-order at the last minute.

When she’s gone, I let out an exhale like a deflated balloon.

What surprises me is which part of last night hurts.

I thought it would be the videos. And yeah, of course, that was like being drawn and quartered in and of itself.

But it’s the last ten seconds of the third one that are playing again and again in my head like Chinese water torture.

Connor saying, We’re gonna get caught.

My baby sister’s laugh. As carefree as ever.

“Relax. She never notices anything.”

Ouch.

No matter how many times I replay the memory, it hurts just as bad as the first.

“Excuse me—are the gingerbread men gluten-free?”

“They are the exact opposite of gluten-free,” I tell the customer, a suave-looking guy in a nice suit. “I’d go so far as to call them gluten-forward. Gluten on top of gluten, really.”

He grins. “Perfect. Load me up. Gluten-free tastes like cardboard, anyway.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” I grab the tongs and give them an experimental clack to be sure they’re in good working order. “How many is ‘load me up,’ by the way?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

“Dangerous words,” I warn. “I’ve been awake since yesterday. My judgment is impaired.”

“Then I’ll take whatever you’d want if you were me.”

That’s such a strange thing to say that I actually look at him properly for the first time. Dark hair, stylishly messy if a little too long on top, like he keeps meaning to get it cut and keeps not doing it. Dark pea coat over his suit, unbuttoned. He’s got a permanent half-smile on his face that makes me want to smile along with him.

Even though every smile today has felt like it’s been the product of hot pincers hooked into my buccal fat and dragged wide.

I box up six gingerbread men and then, on a whim, throw in two of the pistachio linzers I’ve been pushing all week.

His eyebrows rise. “Pistachio? Now, you’re scaring me, Chef.”

“Trust me,” I advise. “Pistachio frangipane, raspberry, so much powdered sugar that you’ll think I’m secretly Pablo Escobar. You’ll get it all over that coat and think about me for the rest of the day.”

Oh, God. Think about me. Who am I? What am I saying? I hear it about a half-second after it leaves my mouth, at which point it is legally and physically unretrievable.

“Is that a threat or a sales pitch?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t even throw in a bear claw. That would be a threat. To your insulin levels, at least.”

“That’s not a threat. Death by sweet treat is how I’ve always wanted to go.”

“I can’t have your blood on my hands.”

“Boo,” he teases. “You’re boring.”

“Yeah, well, someone has to be the adult.”

He laughs. “Sounds exhausting.”