Zane’s eyes narrowed. “She is the best.”
“She’s good.” Archer shrugged. “I’m just saying.”
“Well, don’t,” Zane said.
Riley’s good mood evaporated, the truth of Archer’s words sinking in. Maybe suggesting they all go for coffee was a bad idea. Exhaustion overtook her thoughts, pushed on a wave of Archer’s doubt. He might be a lot of things she didn’t like, but he also never sugarcoated the truth, the way Zane did. Archer had a point. She’d have to be the best, and she wasn’t.
Chapter Twelve
Riley didn’t want togo through the front door. She didn’t want to do this in front of Archer and every other customer in the shop, but Zane was in there, behind the counter, not looking quite genuine as he laughed with his friends. She pushed inside, and Archer grinned.
“Hey. Are you here for the manga after all?” he asked.
She was there for her drawings, but she knew that wasn’t what he meant. She looked at Zane, hoping her expression conveyed how desperately she didn’t want to discuss details. “Technically.”
Zane straightened up. “Hey.”
“I need back that thing you borrowed yesterday.” It took a force of will to keep the tension from her voice. She didn’t care that Zane still had her sketchpad; she didn’t want to talk about it with an audience. Her ego was bruised enough without another dig from Archer. But asking if she and Zane could talk privately would expose as much of her.
“So this is what it’s like to be on the outside of her vague questions.” Archer looked back and forth between them, his tone too light given the tension in the room.
Zane rolled his eyes and turned to Riley, expression softening. “It’s in my apartment.”
“Sounds perfect.” She ignored the way Archer clenched his jaw, and followed Zane upstairs. When he held his apartment door open for her, she brushed past without a word, pacing the short distance between the living room and kitchen areas before turning on her toe and heading in the other direction.
He leaned back against the door, hands in his pockets. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing. Just... Nothing. I need my sketchpad back.”
He kicked away from the door and crossed the room to stand next to the kitchen table, directly in her pacing path. “It’s obviously not nothing.”
“You think?” She came up short, a few feet back. “You really can’t figure it out?” An irritation she hadn’t realized was there surged forward.
He shrugged.
“You can’t just go around telling everyone what I’m trying to do with my art.”