Page 17 of Pretty Little Thing

“You were made for each other, you know that, right?”

He smirks. “I know.”

I tap my foot. “Then, be nice.”

“Nor, it’s fine,” he says. “If I know Mel like I know I do then she’s pissed off right now. But when she goes home tonight, she’ll get all curled up in her soft and warm bed, and before she drifts off to sleep, she’ll reach under the covers for a little down-low tickle, and she’ll think of me.”

“No, she won’t.” I scoff. “She hates your guts.”

“Ask her yourself.” He turns to leave but pauses. “And when you do, text me her answer. I need an ego boost.”

“Yeah, I won’t be doing that.”

He shrugs, amused. “Okay but then you won’t experience the elegant satisfaction of proving me wrong which means that you are in a perpetual state of being wrong and that’s gonna eat away at you until... you... pop.”

I shift on my toes. “No, it won’t.”

His knowing grin curls along his cheeks. “Bye, Nora.”

“Bye, Robbie.”

He stops mid-stride, his eyes locking on my hand. “No way! Did she take you to Judy’s?” he asks with excitement.

I shove my hand in my jacket to hide the stamp. “No.”

“I thought you looked different!” He laughs. “Good for you.”

“I don’t look different!” I pause. “Do I?”

“Honestly, it’s about time.”

I furrow my brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, Nora, Nora, Nora.” He sighs. “We both know exactly what that means. Did you try the cross?”

I swallow. “The what?”

“The St. Andrew’s cross,” he says. “Trust me. You’d loveit.”

“No,” I answer. “I didn’t try the cross. Melanie gave me a little tour, that’s all. Just a bit of lunch break fun...”

“Go back and try the cross.” He points at me with his bandaged hand. “The cross is your friend.”

I clear my throat. “Okay, it was fun catching up, Robbie. I gotta go. Bye.”

I take a wide step around him and pull open the door.

“Bye,” he shouts after me. “But remember! Try the cross!”

I give the door a little nudge to close it faster, hoping no one heard or understood the tail-end of that conversation. Hell, I’m not even sure I understood that conversation.

I cut the line to join Melanie halfway up but everyone, herself included, is too stuck in their phones to notice.

“Hey,” she mutters, smacking her thumbs against the screen with lightning speed. She rarely texts, so she must be jotting down an idea for one of her books. “Talking to Robbie?” she asks, her voice dripping with audible annoyance.

“A little bit,” I say.

“Well, make sure you shower at the earliest convenience,” she jokes. “You have no idea where he’s been.”

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