Page 10 of Savored Sins
Phoebe: Will, will you make me dinner?
Zeke: See ya in 5!
Phoebe: Will. Feeeeed meeeeee.
Will:
Benji: You guys, PLEASE. This is the group chat.
Will’s house smells amazing when I let myself in the front door and make a beeline to the kitchen. It’s Tuesday evening, and I haven’t been by Will’s placesince the weekend—which, incidentally, means I also haven’t had a decently cooked meal since the weekend. But hey—I’ve been more interested in texting Jenny, the chick from the bar, and researching for the podcast episode I want to record about the Ashfern Forest in Vermont than tying on an apron and shoving a casserole in the oven. Sue me.
The fact that I haven’t seen Will or Lydia since Saturday also means that I haven’t told them about the SyFy pilot contest—or about walking in Autumn’s fashion show. I already know Will’s going to grunt at me about the contest—that fucker grunts about everything and he still thinks I need to get a “real” job—but I’m low key intrigued to see how Lydia’s going to react when she hears I’ll be modeling that menswear line for her best friend. I mean, I haven’t exactly kept it a secret that I think Autumn’s a fine piece of ass. Lydia’s no dummy—she’ll see right away that my plan is in motion.
Oh, yeah. It’s all coming together.
“Duuude,” I announce, flinging my backpack onto a barstool and taking a glass down from the cupboard. “Whatever that is smellsdope.”
Will’s chopping a clove of garlic, and I hear him grunt as I pour myself a glass of orange juice from the fridge and take a hefty gulp. “Sure does. You helping?”
I swallow the orange juice with an exaggerated sigh of refreshment. “Nah, I’m just here to mooch.”
Will shakes his head, but his lips twitch and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. He’s been a lot less grouchy since Lydia came around—probably due to getting his dick sucked regularly—but he’s been on thisdon’t-encourage-the-kidkick lately, which I find very endearing. I also love how hecooksnow—and not just omelets and spaghetti-os and frozen pizza.
It’s honestly amazing what good head will do for a man.
Will takes another cutting board out of a lower cabinet and tosses it on the counter next to me. He hands me a knife and points to a bundle of freshly washed herbs that are lying next to the sink. “You. Basil. Chop.”
“Oh, Will, Ican’t,” I fake whine. “These fingers areprecious. They’ve pleasedcountlesswomen. If something were to happen to them?—”
“Then you’d use your mouth, dipshit. Just like you do for everything else. Get chopping.”
Will gestures to the basil again, but he’s hiding his face and his shoulders are heaving with laughter. I grin and give him a playful punch in the arm as I pick up the knife. Just as I do, my phone buzzes. It’s Benji on FaceTime.
“Yo!” Turning the call volume all the way up, I flip my phone horizontally and prop it up against my orange juice glass on the counter. “Will and I are here cooking—just call us Julie and Julia.”
“Oh, yeah?” Benji looks skeptical. He’s got on joggers and a tight-fitting tee, and I’m only thetiniestbit jealous of how put-together he looks. “What are you guys making?”
“Uhhhh.” I glance at Will, who’s grimacing and giving Benji acome save mesort of look. “We’re making… I have no clue what we’re making. Will, what’s this supposed to be in the end?”
“Spaghetti bolognese.”
“Huh. I’m surprised he’d trust you with a knife,” Benji says.
“Iknow. I said the same thing. I said if one of these fingers gets accidentally chopped off?—”
“You don’t need to finish that sentence,” Benji says, nose wrinkling. “I think we all know where it’s going. Anyway—what’s up? You said you had some news?”
“News?” Will glances at me as he adds his pile of minced garlic to the pan of already sauteing onions. He freezes, asthough a thought’s just come over him. “Holy shit. I swear togod, Zeke, if you got somebody pregnant?—”
I burst out laughing. “Jesus, what do you take me for—some kind of amateur?No, I did not get someonepregnant. Iam,however, entering a reality TV contest.”
Benji snorts. “Reality show—what, like Survivor?”
“As if,” Will says. “Zeke wouldn’t last twosecondson Survivor. More like… the Real House-Slobs of Hawthorne Bay.”
“Or Love Island,” Benji puts in, slapping the arm of whatever sofa he’s on. “Wait—what’s that show Phoebe used to watch? Too Hot to Handle?”
“For your information,” I retort, pretending to be mad even though I’m loving the attention, “Iamtoo hot to handle. But can you two be serious for, like, thirty seconds? This is an actual thing I’m excited about.”
