“When baby daddy was here, and you disappeared out back like the horny hounds of hell were on your heels.”
“Do the hounds of hell have horns?”
“Not that kind of horny. The sexual congress kind.”
“I just took out the trash.”
Jenner glances down pointedly at the receptacle I’d brought back earlier, still no more than half full.
“Yeah, see, I realised when I was out there that it wasn’t full. And well, the bags are biodegradable, but it’s still better if they’re full.”
“You’re full of it. The worst liar ever.”
Shows what you know. “They are too,” I protest. “I pay extra for them. And yes, okay,” I add, setting down my plate. “I asked Roman to come around tonight. To discuss how we’re going to do it.” Jenner’s mouth begins to curl. “This—how we’re going to do this.”
“Once Wilder’s tucked up in his itty-bitty bed?”
“Yes.”
The look he sends me? Pure mm-hmm.
“What’s that look for? You think Roman might get the wrong idea?”
“Depends on what you think the right idea is.” He pitches the granola bar into the trash and picks up my discarded plate of cake and fork.
“I don’t know why you don’t just eat cake in the first place.”
“Because some of us don’t have a metabolism like you do.” He brings the cake-laden fork to his lips. “I either get to eat the snack or look like one.” I quirk a provocative brow and glance at the plate in his hand. “These are your calories,” he retorts. “They don’t count.”
“Stop with the sex noises!”
“If loving cake is so wrong, I don’t want to be right.” He begins to lick the frosting from the fork in an X-rated style.
“Stop that!” I splutter through a burst of the giggles. “High Grounds is not that type of establishment.”
“Me and Marie Antoinette, we’re singing from the same hymn sheet. Annie is the bomb dot com. Those maple pecan doughnuts she made last week—chef’s kiss. I will never buy a Voodoo doughnut again. And you know what they say, the magic is all in the hole.” His eyes flutter closed, and he resumes those noises of enjoyment again.
I can’t help but laugh, even as I respond and strike out with my foot. “That’s obscene, Jenner.”
“That’s not what baby daddy’s thinking,” he trills, scooting away and dodging a tennis shoe to his shin. “And from where I’m standing, it’s not what you’re thinking either.”
“Trust me, you do not want to know what’s going on in my head.”
“I know that man gives you the sexy butterflies.” Jenner gives a shimmy worthy of The Supremes.
“I don’t get butterflies. I get anxiety.”
“Bullshit.”
“Men don’t give me butterflies. They give me anxiety. And trust issues.”
“It looks like that man has a lot more he plans on giving you,” he murmurs, moving out of reach.
I direct a frown his way. I know it’s a running joke that my thoughts pretty much embed themselves in my face, but does that also extend to my imaginings?
Stop. Over. Thinking, I silently chastise as I swipe up my phone as a means of distraction. A notification from the booking app I use for the pixie house flashes up on the screen. Swiping it open, I’m momentarily confused. It’s been booked for the next three months—paid upfront. This has never happened before. The place is rarely rented out for whole weeks at a time, even in the height of the summer season. I sign into my account, wondering if there’s been some kind of glitch. I mean, I can’t see how . . .
And then I think.
No. Not him. Not Roman. Unless he’s some kind of CEO-level digital nomad, I think with a snort. A snort I almost choke on as I realise it is him—Roman has booked and paid for the pixie house. He’ll be living at the bottom of my garden for almost the next three months, but for the days already prebooked. I wonder where he’ll stay then?
My bed.
As those tempting words curl around my brain, an image of that suddenly flickers in my head. But then I’m saved from my overactive imagination by the bell. Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I glance up, suddenly hit by a wave of inspiration.
“Why, Drew Sanchez. I haven’t seen you around in an age!”
Drew’s sandy lashes blink heavily, and he only just stops himself from glancing over his shoulder as though to see if some other Drew has come in behind him. “Hey, Kennedy.” His hand rises uncertainly. “I was here on Monday?”
“You were?” I slide a hand to my hip and cock it a little. “Well, I’m sorry I missed you.” Even though, now that he comes to mention it, I vaguely remember seeing him. Serving him, maybe?
“You”—he suddenly shakes his head, probably thinking of a better answer—“no problem. How are you?”
“I’m all the better for seeing you!” Yeah, Drew, I get it. Perky Kennedy is a new one on me, too. But just roll with it, would you? “What can I get for you this gorgeous afternoon?” I press my palms to the counter and lean in, aiming for enthused rather than deranged.