Page 12 of Mixing Drinks For Tipsy Weasels

He gives me what appears to be a conspiratorial smile, and I find myself laughing along with him at the absurdity of the whole conversation.

And feeling as if we're kids again. Before all of the weirdness between us happened, back when we were best friends. It almost makes me wish that things were back to the way they used to be.

Chapter 7

Rupert

Music fillsthe air and I'm almost tempted to sing along as I paint, but I'm not Erica, and that's a little bit too much for me. And I'm not sure that my singing along to cheesy pop songs is going to set the mood for Sami and D. From what my flatmate has been telling me, things are going pretty well between the two of them.

At least that makes my truce with Erica worthwhile, though there's a part of me that has actually enjoyed having her to talk to again. But maybe that's just nostalgia talking, I'm not entirely sure.

I turn around to get more paint and accidentally knock into the paint can. To my surprise, it teeters on the edge, and the whole world feels as if it's going in slow motion as it falls over the side of the scaffolding.

"Watch out!" I manage to call, before letting out a litany of curses.

"Ah!"

I lean over the edge of the scaffold and look down to see Erica standing there drenched in paint. She flicks her hands and sends globs of paint going everywhere.

I grimace. This isn't going to help much with our truce. I grab my hoodie and slip it on before shifting and hurrying down the scaffold. I could probably get down just as well in my human form, but there's something freeing about scampering down it as a weasel.

From up close, the paint is even worse, covering most of Erica's shirt.

"I'm so sorry, Erica," I say, not really knowing what else I can say. I'm almost relieved that we've tried to make a truce because then at least she doesn't think this is part of some elaborate ploy I have to make her life miserable. "I'm sorry..."

"It's fine," she says, flicking her hands down and spraying paint everywhere. It's going to be a nightmare to clean up, and somehow, I doubt building services are going to be the ones who'll do it. I'll be expected to.

"You should take my hoodie," I say, shrugging it off and holding it out to her.

"I said I'm fine," she murmurs.

"You're not fine," I counter. "You're covered in paint."

"And there's probably a part of you that loves it."

I can't help the hint of a smile that plays at my lips. "All right, sure, the ten-year-old part."

"And the nineteen-year-old part."

"It's kind of funny. Though I'm not the one standing covered in paint."

"True. There's no one in the doorway, right?"

I shake my head.

"All right." She pulls her shirt over her head, revealing a skin-tight tank top underneath. It clings to her in a way thatit definitely didn't when we were kids and there's a part of me that's definitely not immune to what I'm seeing.

She takes my hoodie from me and slips her arms through it. She's still got paint all over her face, and the hoodie is too big on her, but she looks kind of adorable in it. "Thanks."

I sigh. "Guess I should go get another tin of paint. I don't think I can paint up there from the floor."

She laughs. "Probably not, no."

"And I'll have to tell Robin." I grimace. Somehow telling the head of the ball committee about the mess I just made doesn't sound very fun at all.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Oh well, I guess it has to be done. We can rescue the bag from the paintbrushes from your shirt."

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