Page 117 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
I narrowed my eyes. “You think my date qualifies as a crisis?”
She pointed my phone at me. “Exhibit A. It is when I don’t hear from you until … Oh wait. I didn’t.”
“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours,” I grumbled.
Adele raised an eyebrow. “You had dinner with the guy you’ve been hate-flirting with for years. You and I both know the Ruby River gossip chain has been salivating over the two of you since forever.”
“They have not.”
She raised an eyebrow. “How do you think I know you didn’t get home until after midnight?”
“I—uh—” My gaze quickly surveyed the walls of the apartment. “Do you have cameras in here?”
“Mrs. Crawford posted on the town’s social media page.”
Mrs. Crawford was a busybody. She walked her dog, Susu, at all hours, just so she could spy on people. “She did not.”
“There’s a blurry pic of you getting out of your car when you got home. Cute outfit BTW. I’m glad you went with that sweater.”
“This town is unhinged.” I pulled my mug out from under the coffeemaker and held out my hand for hers. She surrendered it without breaking eye contact, which was somehow more unsettling.
My phone lit up again.
Adele’s eyes dropped to the screen. She read the preview. Her jaw went slack.
It lit up again.
She stared at the screen. Then at me. Then back at the phone. The squeal she let out rattled my cabinet doors. “Holy shit, he’ssextingyou! Marc Kingsley is a dirty talker?!?”
I lunged.
Too late. She had it above her head like she was protecting a signed hardcover special edition from a flood.
“Give it back.”
“Absolutely not. You violated clause number four-twenty-two of our friendship agreement: A best friend must be contacted the second a date ends. At this rate, you’re going to be facing severe friendship penalty fees.”
“Isn’t clause four-twenty-two if you pick up a yummy dessert from The Sweet Spot you have to buy two and share?”
Her nose wrinkled. “Not the point. You’re trying to distract me.”
I giggled. Full-on giggled.
“You giggled.” Adele’s mouth snapped shut. “Did he replace you with a pod-person?”
My phone buzzed again. This time Adele typed in my password.
“Hey,” I protested as she scrolled through my morning texts, immediately regretting ever giving her my code.
Her jaw dropped. “OMG! This is just you after being sexed up.”
“Give me the phone!”
“Not until you answer my questions!”
“This is blackmail.”
“Thisis being a good friend.”
