Page 31 of All's Fair in Love and Blackmail

Don’t say what I think you’re about to say.

Felix

Promise you won’t fall in love with me.

Me

Aaaaand I’m out.

Felix

India?

India??

SUNSHINE?

I watch the messages come in, but I don’t answer; I just smirk and then get back to work.

FELIX

India greetsthe return of her motorcycle with the sort of enthusiasm I would expect from a parent whose beloved child has just come home from studying abroad.

“Hi, Betsy,” she coos, hurrying over to her motorcycle when we enter the garage at Sal’s. “I missed you.”

I blink at her. “I’d have thought your love would cool after you hit the pavement on this thing.”

She takes a deep breath and then turns to me with a smile. “I refuse to let my love cool,” she says through her teeth. “And I refuse to live in fear. I am making something positive out of this experience instead.” Her shoulders seem to relax a bit once she turns back to Betsy; then she gives the seat a fond little pat. “You have a new brother.”

“Me?” I say, brightening. “Is it me? Have I been promoted?”

“What? No,” she says with a snort, looking over her shoulder at me. “It’s my fish. I got a fish. His name is Janis Joplin.”

I just stare at her.

“I call him Joplin,” she says defensively. “And he’s cute. I’ve wanted a pet fish for a long time.”

I hold my hands up to placate her. “Sorry, sorry. I’m very happy for you and Joplin.”

“Thank you,” she says with a sniff. “He’s settling in nicely. He lives on the kitchen table.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say, amused. “You know, when you start dating, I think you could win over any guy you meet if you tell him you have a motorcycle named Betsy and a fish named Janis Joplin.”

In truth, she could probably win over any guy she meets just by wearing that outfit, much less doing cute things like naming her motorcycle. I’m not interested in her, of course—she’s firmly in the friends category now—but I’m happy to admire beauty where I see it. She’s wearing loose jeans, a fitted white t-shirt that hugs the curves I absolutely do not pay attention to, and chunky tennis shoes. Her skin glows tanned and golden against the white shirt, and her hair hangs long and unrestrained down her back.

Something about the look takes her usual cuteness and adds a bit of heat. Lots of men might be attracted to the sight she presents this evening.

Not me, obviously. But other men.

“Ignore him,” India says to Betsy, completely oblivious to my objective admiration. “He’s just jealous that a red-haired goddess like myself hasn’t asked him to live on my kitchen table.”

I just smile.

I stand off to the side while India gets things squared away with Sal, watching the way her hair changes color depending on which way she turns her head. Even in the spotty overhead lights, there’s gold and brown and something I’d call strawberry blonde—a shade I recognize because Poppy has educated me. When I realize I’m staring a little too intently, however, I shake my head and look away again.

“You ready?” I say when she wheels Betsy over to me.

“Yep,” she says happily. “I’m good. Let’s go.”

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