Page 38 of The Devil Wears Tartan

“But I have a condition.”

That sounds more like her.

“And what’s that?”

“We don’t interrupt each other, and we don’t ask follow-up questions.”

The need to grumble at her comes on strong as indignation sparks in my chest. “Well, sorry if you consider it interrupting when I just want to have an organic conversation that will—what, Kenzie?”

I cut myself off when I see the clearly amused lift of her eyebrows as she sets her tea down and crosses her arms over her chest.

Her bra is still somewhat visible through the slowly drying fabric of her crumb-stained shirt. I should have offered her a clean one right away, but now that she’s back to acting superior, the urge to be helpful is fading.

However, the urge to get another look at her boobs still going strong.

“This is exactly what I meant,” she answers. “We interrupt each other and derail the conversation with arguments—and yes, I’m including myself in that too. It’s like you said; we need this interview to be extra good now that we’ve lost a few volunteer hours, and it’s not going to be good if we can’t even finish it.”

I bite my tongue to hold back all the snarky replies that spring to mind.

She does have a point.

“I can do it if you can do it,” I answer after a moment of contemplation.

“Oh, I can do it,” she says, leaning a little farther forward.

Do not look at her boobs. Do not look at her boobs, Moira Murray.

From what I’ve seen through her shirt, her boobs are fucking cute, but I doubt that’s the word I’d use for them if I got to see her without a bra on.

Which I will not, because she is my enemy and an annoyingly smug person in general.

As if she can read my mind, she smirks and stands up, reaching to shimmy the waistband of her tartan skirt a little higher before smoothing the fabric down her thighs.

“Are you going to show me this sunroom?”

If I could raise my eyes to the ceiling and say a silent prayer to the spirit of Scotland without her noticing, I totally would.

“I guess we better get it over with,” I answer as I get to my feet too.

We take our tea with us and head up the creaky staircase to the second floor. The sunroom is a common feature of houses in this area: a little box of a room that juts out over the front porch, with windows lining three of its walls. We close the room off in the winter since there’s no insulation, but on a sunny October afternoon, it will still be warm enough to film in there.

My bedroom door is open a few inches, and I pause in front of it.

“So, uh, I guess you still want a shirt?”

“I mean, I’d love to sit around in the brownie crumbs you threw at me, but I don’t know if that would make the best impression on camera.”

Her snark makes it a lot easier to open my bedroom door and lead her inside, but I still have to avert my eyes and focus on digging through one of my drawers for a white t-shirt when I see her eyeing my bed.

Thankfully, today was one of the rare mornings during which I made my bed. The multicoloured quilt covering my sheets is a little childish, but it’s one of the last things my gran made before her hands got too bad to sew, so I’d never dream of giving it up.

The rest of my decor is a mesh of childhood dance memorabilia, posters with a distinct angsty teenager feel to them—or at least, as close to being an angsty teenager as I ever got—and some of my recent attempts to make the space more grown up, such as some trendy ceramic vases and a set of long white curtains to replace the purple ones I had as a kid.

“There you go,” I say, tossing the t-shirt at Kenzie as soon as I find it. I book it back over to the hallway and say I’ll meet her in the sunroom before pulling the door closed behind me.

Kenzie is changing in my room. At this very moment, she probably doesn’t have a shirt on.

I blow out a long, heavy breath and then jog back downstairs to grab my phone out of my purse. By the time Kenzie comes out wearing my t-shirt, I’ve stolen my brother’s tripod from his room and started setting the sunroom up for the interview.

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