Page 39 of Red Flags Only

She laughs, sprinkling my soul with sparks of her joy, then answers, “No, I had most of my dresses tailored to have bigger pockets. I wanted to be able to fit my gardening gloves in them whenever I forgot my apron.”

My brows rise. “You have an apron?” I haven’t seen her in it either of the times I’ve caught her in her work attire.

“Somewhere,” she admits, grinning sheepishly. “Hence the pockets.”

I snort. “Right.”

“The contract?” she redirects, disappearing the rest of her objects back into her pocket.

I nod. “The contract.”

Then, over apple tarts and herbal teas, we discuss the terms of our relationship.

And we ignore half the town gathering outside to watch.

Chapter Twenty-One

Sorry, I can just… what? How do I do that?

Lyra

“This seems fine to me,” I mutter, flipping to the last page of the contract. “Was there anything specific you wanted to discuss? Most of it is common sense and being decent to each other. I can do that.” I will do that. I will be a good, decent friend if it kills me.

Jove shrugs. “Not really, no. Mars came up with most of that, and if you approve, then I’m good. I trust you two.”

Oh. Ah. No pressure there or anything.

“Perfect!” I squeak, taking a sip of my now cold tea. “We’ll just… get on with it, then?”

He nods, chill as could be. As if we are not doing anything out of the ordinary. As if everyone fake dates their best friend for research purposes. A casual Tuesday.

“We’re already on with it, I believe,” he says, cool cool cool. “All that’s left to do is continue.” And then he shoves his third apple tart into his mouth, eating the entire thing in one bite.

Jupiter Unbothered Rogue, everybody.

“What’s your middle name?” I ask, not convinced I’m wrong.

“Caelum,” he replies, possibly lying. “Why?”

“No reason!” I chirp, lifting my tea cup to my mouthand finishing off the tepid liquid.

“Yours is Eranthe, yes?”

I blink.

Yes, my middle name is Eranthe. However. I am positive I only mentioned that one singular time, somewhere around the sixth grade when I was going through my call-me-by-my-middle name phase – a phase that only lasted a week, hence me mentioning it the one time and never again.

“Lyra Eranthe Gold,” he mutters. “You know, if we made this into a marriage of convenience trope, you could be Lyra ErantheRogue.”

Is my face on fire? My face feels on fire.

“We’re not doing that,” I squawk.

He snorts. “But you could get half my assets in the divorce!”

Ew. Gross. No. “I do notwanthalf your assets,” I tell him. “I can’t be trusted with that much money. I’d probably blow it all on stickers.”

“There aren’t enough stickers in the world,” he grumbles, lower lip sneaking out in a much-too-adorable-for-Jove-Roguepout.

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