Page 29 of Never Say Yes To Your Best Friend (I said Yes)

“Hmm?” she murmurs.

“Did you make that soup?” I ask.

“I did!”

“Can I pay you to make me some?”

“Oh, goodness, no. I’ll make you some for free. You don’t have to pay me.”

“But the ingredients cost money.”

“How about I make it for you and give you a receipt for the groceries, and then we call it even?”

“If you’re sure. But your time and the electricity and stuff isn’t free.”

“Hey, we’re friends.” She winks at me with her equally incredible lashes. They’re extensions. She’s told me where she goes before, but I’ve also never been brave enough to try it either. “And I know for a fact that some of the improvements to this place came from your suggestions. I don’t care how you guys met or what you’re doing in your personal life, but I know that even if you were dating a man rich beyond everyone’s wildest dreams, you’d still be exactly you. Don’t worry. When I looked him and his family up, I found they’re pretty normal for rich people. They don’t even have a lot of stuff. I looked at hisparents’ house and his house and his other business locations, and they’re all so normal. He seems like a pretty down-to-earth guy, too. I meant it when I said this place lucked out.”

Then, she disappears with her soup, humming away. I can’t whistle, and I can barely hum, but she makes it sound like a lovely art form.

I’m alone in the lunchroom. With a soft sigh, I pull my packed sandwich out of the fridge. Tuna, mayo, and celery today. It’s not magic, and it’s not crab legs, but it fills the void. Yes, I dare to eat tuna at work. It doesn’t stink nearly as much as people think. Not if it’s refrigerated and consumed quickly. Cold fish doesn’t have much of a smell to me.

Shit, I hope it doesn’t have much of a smell. Maybe I’ve grown so accustomed to it that I can’t detect the foul fishiness.

Now I’m worried about it.

I put the sandwich back in the fridge. I’ll eat it for dinner. I packed an apple, some cheese and crackers, plus carrot sticks. I also have a stash of snacks in my desk drawer if I’m starved.

I take the rest of my lunch, but I don’t head back to my desk. I haven’t talked to Mont in four days. Not since our crabtastic get-to-know-you dinner. I was surprised at his change of heart at the end. Surprised and maybe a little proud. I’m not sure what his story is, and I didn’t have the chance to ask enough questions at the crab place before he came out with the decision to tell his mom that we’re not dating at all.

I’m not even sure if he’s in his office, but when I sidle up, the door is cracked, and I can see his all-black-clad form in there. I didn’t look at the sheet he handed me, but I bet black isn’t his favorite color. It’s just his favorite wardrobe hue. And why not? If I looked that good in black, I’d be wearing it all the freaking time too. Spoiler alert: I look like a washed-out ghost in black. Sorry to all ghosts. They’re hot right now, and everyone likesghosts. But what does everyone not like? Canned mushrooms? Maybe it’s just me, but they’re pretty pale and sketchy.

I don’t have to knock on the partially closed door because Mont looks up right away. No wonder Mabel could see there was something going on. He’s not just wearing black. It’s wearing him right down to the dark circles under his eyes. He doesn’t look like he’d be in the mood to crack a smile. He doesn’t have that serious asshole set going on in his jaw, either. Maybe it’s his eyes, or maybe it’s the way his shoulders bow in over the desk. He’s not even sitting up straight, and it’s like he’s been defeated in some way.

I step in and close the door most of the way. I leave it open just a crack. Most people leave to go out for lunch, and I’ll be quiet anyway.

I walk up to his desk, aware that in this office that has yet to be decorated, I look like a wild child with my flowered vintage blouse, bright blue skirt, and matching blue boots. He leans back in his chair, but it doesn’t mean he looks relaxed. He looks on edge. As on edge as I’m going to be, broaching this subject.

My mom has this saying, and it literally annoys the hell out of me.Why the long face, Ace?I guess it’s so obnoxious because it doesn’t make any sense. But I find myself asking anyway. “Someone just pointed out to me that you look unhappy to the extreme. I don’t want to grill you about whether you’ve done it, but did you talk to your mom yet? If you haven’t, and this is what extreme anxiety looks like, then you should for sure have a wingman with you to get it done and over with.”

Mont closes his laptop very carefully. He looks at it and not at me. “I talked to her.”

“You did?”

“I did.”

“What did she say?” Probably nothing good if he looks like awell-used mop in the kindest way.That’s what Mabel calledhim. I love puppies, and his mom would never kick puppies. But he isn’t a puppy. Dear sweet crab legs, no. He is a full-grown man. One that my body lights up at the sight of or at the thought of, and lately, there’s been lots of thoughts of and lots of lighting up, and it’s starting to drive me a little bit batty.

“She was horrified, then a little mad, then sad, and then the dreaded disappointed mom was a thing.” His dark eyes meet mine, burning all the way to my core. “And then she asked me questions I didn’t have the answers to. That was the worst part.”

“Like what?” My imagination is going pretty ham at the moment.

“She wanted to know what I wanted. Out of life.”

That’s kind of the mother of all questions, no pun intended. “Does anyone really know that?”

He shrugs. At least he’s looking at me now, which makes my stomach flutter when it shouldn’t. “When I told her I didn’t know, she wanted to know what was so wrong with helping me to figure it out and be happy. She’s my mom, and all she’s ever wanted to do is help.”

“There’s helping, and then there’s too much helping.”

---