Page 74 of We Can't Be Friends

He swallows. “Maybe.”

“Why?”

“You have Celiac disease.”

“Thank you for telling me something about myself I already know.”

“You can’t have that stuff.”

“Wow, again with the mansplaining.”

“I got rid of anything with gluten in it. I did some research and learned how bad cross contamination can be.”

“That’s usually a big concern for restaurants or bakeries. I can avoid your honey mustard pretzels.”

His face pulls in embarrassment that I heard him. “I didn’t want you to have to avoid anything here. I didn’t want to risk you getting sick at all.”

“How sweet of you, but I’m only going to be here tonight. Maybe tomorrow night.”

“That’s still two days I don’t want to risk.”

My chest tightens. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Cal walks to the island area where the brown paper bag of our takeout sits. He pulls out the containers and forks. Sliding a rice noodle dish to me.

He walks around the bar, but stops. Blue eyes dance up and down my standing body.

“What are you wearing?”

“My pajamas.” Irises flaring brighter. “Are they a problem?”

“Nope,” he says on an inhale, cheeks red.

Noted.

My insides cackle like a witch, fingers tapping and mind concocting all the ways I can drive him wild. Even if it’s only for two days.

21

CHLOE

“Hello?” I grimace into my phone, sitting up in bed. Kicking at the foreign sheets, my eyes barely open.

“Chloe Henry? Hello, this is Jonathan, your landlord. Are you able to meet me at your apartment in thirty minutes? I’ve reviewed the damage and need to walk you through it.”

Jonathan is an older gentleman, easily in his sixties, spry for his age. He’s owned the building for years, and up until this year, I hadn’t interacted with him. Now it’s an on-and-off again relationship between him, me, and my bathroom pipes.

I rub my hands over my sleepy eyes.

“Yeah, sure. I can be there.”

Jonathan doesn’t respond. He grunts and hangs up.

I release a deep exhale, pulling back the covers. I climb out of bed, changing into a pair of black leggings and an oversized black sweater. From my duffle, I dig out a pair of Vans, having to throw out my water-logged sneakers from yesterday. I don’t even want to think about what could have potentially been in that water.

Cal’s door is open when I step into the hallway. Debating whether to dip my head in, see if he’s there—or to snoop—when the sound of a cabinet closing rumbles downstairs.

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