Page 149 of We Can't Be Friends

“Mi pecas, no. The dish is far simpler than you kids ever let it be.” She laughs again and I smile, laughing with her. “You’ve never sought this recipe out before. Are you finally done with ordering food?” She knows me well.

“I swear it saves me money.”

“Delivery fees.”

“Time is money,” we bicker.

“Sure, pecas. What brought on this need for my empanadas?”

“No one,” I accidentally said instead of, “Nothing.”

“I hope he enjoys them,” shesingsongs.

***

Ibarge into Cal’s office. The door was already open with Tucker lying on his back squeezing a moose toy in his front paws.

“We have a problem.”

“A problem?”

His focus doesn’t waver from the computer screen. Blue eyes narrowed on whatever is apparently more important than me at the moment. The glow of the screen reflects in his glasses.

“Yes, a problem!” I storm—walk—to his desk. Putting my hands next to his computer, I lean forward.

Cal’s gaze turns to me, dipping to the cleavage from my tank—extremely small straps, low coverage—and back to my eyes. I didn’t change when I returned from my yoga class and the store. He takes a sharp inhale, and his throat bobs.

Got’em. Attention is mine, and dang it, if I don’t enjoy the way he looks at me. Whenever I find his eyes lingering on me, it’s as if it’s the first time he’s ever seen me and that he believes it might be the last.

“A problem?” he asks again, his voice cracking at the end.

“I know you clean your ears out religiously. Don’t pretend that you can’t hear me.”

Cal cracks, the smallest uptick of the right corner of his mouth. “How may I help you, Chloe?”

Our faces are closing in on each other

“Didn’t say I needed your help.”

“But you have a problem.”

“So you can hear.”

“All the clattering in the kitchen? Yeah.” He licks his bottom lip. “Admit you are your problem and I am the only one who can help you.”

I narrow my eyes into a sliver.

Standing up, I let my facial expressions stay frozen. Spinning on my heels and leaving.

He follows me. The sound of his chair hitting the wall lets me know my plan worked.

Walking down the hallway, passing the dining area, I glance over my shoulder. Cal is trailing me like a lost dog. Like my actual dog is.

“You were making dinner.”

“Trying,” I huff.

“If you wanted to make me something to eat, you could’ve offered yourself.”

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