Page 17 of Friends Don't Kiss

She stays on the sidewalk, holding the eggs up. “Declan needs to know about this!”

“You’re reading too much into this!”

The minute the words leave my mouth, I know I’m in trouble.

Her eyes bug out. “Excuse me?”

I take out my phone. “I’m calling Declan,” I say, referring to our chief of police. “Come on, get in the truck.”

She stays put on the sidewalk. “I can’t believe you said that!”

“Said what? It’s cold.” I hold my phone up. “I won’t call him till you’re inside. Don’t be ridiculous.”

She stomps to the truck and slams the door. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I can’t stand when people say I’m reading too much into stuff. It’s a lazy cop-out.”

“Noted,” I say, trying not to chuckle as I call Declan.

He picks up on the second ring, and I fill him in quickly.

“You have the eggs?” he asks.

“Yup.” Kiara, now next to me in the truck, is holding them on her lap.

“I’ll need them as evidence.”

“The weapon,” I add with a smile.

“Right,” he adds. Declan isn’t exactly the joking kind, but it’s because he’s always looking out for us. Anticipating what could go wrong.

“We’ll be at Lazy’s,” I tell him, then hang up.

“You’re holding evidence, it seems,” I say to Kiara.

“Oooh. Cool. Can you lift fingerprints from a carton?” she says, lifting her hands from the eggs.

“Probably. And DNA.”

“Shit. How ’bout from eggs? I didn’t open the box.”

“You’ll have to ask Dec. You’re his only witness.”

“Ugh. Is he gonna want to interview me? The day just gets better,” she mutters.

“Matter-of-fact, it does,” I say as we pull up in front of Lazy’s. “Come on.” I hop out and grab the leftover cake Eloise insisted we take. The other leftovers—neatly packed in plastic containers—are coming home with me if Kiara doesn’t want them. Especially Uncle Bill’s meatloaf.

Inside, the pub is full of familiar faces. And as we walk in, every single one of them falls silent.

“Where you guys coming from?” my sister, Grace, asks. Her gaze goes between Kiara and me, sliding up and down to appreciate how overdressed we are.

“Ugh, you don’t wanna know,” Kiara says as she hoists herself on a barstool between Willow and Haley, two of our friends.

I drop the cake on the bar and flip open the box, revealing a section of the masterpiece Kiara brought to her grandmother’s. Willow claps her hands, hops off her stool, and starts slicing the cake, loading small plates that Haley passes out.

Alex, my cousin’s pregnant fiancée, laughs. “Did you guys secretly get married, and this is your way to tell us?”

Kiara rolls her eyes. “Ugh. Eventhatsounds better than what happened.” She doesn’t look at me. I don’t know if she said it to kill the rumor mill—which, if so,mission accomplished—or if she’s genuinely disgusted by the idea of being married to me. I’m vaguely offended that it may be the latter.

“Oh no,” Alex says, leaning in. “What happened?”

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