Page 19 of Sick of You

She took the seat farthest from me and claimed the sparkling water, pulling it over to her side of the table. She glanced down at it. “This is chilled.”

“Do you drink it warm?” I found the stuff barely tolerable cold, but maybe Dr. Croft hated puppies and ice cream too.

Dr. Croft wrinkled her nose, which was pretty cute even with her scowl. “No. But Federal Donuts doesn’t sell sparkling water.”

Ah. She’d found me out. “Wawa is just around the corner.”

She eyed the can one more time.

Why was she holding out? Maybe I could cajole her into taking it. “I saw the way you looked at it on the plane. The same way Dr. Donaldson looks at you.”

She held up one finger in warning. “We are not going there.”

I repeated my two-hand, palms out gesture of surrender.

Apparently appeased, she popped the tab on the can. I pushed a chicken sandwich across the table, settling the donuts and the fries on napkins in a line across the middle. Dr. Croft accepted the sandwich, although she did inspect it like I’d dipped it in please-please-please-like-me poison. (Those were the vibes, sure.)

I’d be the lab rat if it helped: I took a bite of my own chicken sandwich. The twice-fried crunch complemented the tender chicken, while the tang of the dill and the herby ranch seasoning added just the right counterpoint to the rooster sauce and American cheese. This was a Michelin star above any cafeteria food I could imagine.

Dr. Croft finally took a bite of her own sandwich. She closed her eyes and reveled in the flavor for a long moment, sighing at last.

“Good?” I could only pray she couldn’t hear how desperately I needed her approval. I didn’t make the sandwich, but if this didn’t work, I had no idea how I might get on her good side.

She simply smiled. “Very good.”

I returned her grin. “But wait, there’s more.” I pointed out each donut. “Double chocolate cheesecake, key lime pie, strawberry lavender, and chocolate s’mores.”

“You can’t shower me with donuts to get your way.” Her voice didn’t hold the same vitriol as it had a minute ago.

“Really?” I raised an eyebrow. “Because I heard these are amazing, and I’ve been known to do some pretty crazy stuff for even mediocre donuts.”

“What, like, tip Daddy’s butler extra?” she teased me between bites. “Take your local donut shop’s staff for a ride in Mommy’s Lambo?”

Ha. “My mother doesn’t have a Lamborghini.”

“Sorry, Maserati.”

I racked my brain to figure out how she knew one of my mother’s cars. Maybe the Tynies were passing around that info.

“Your mother actually has a Maserati, doesn’t she,” Dr. Croft said. It wasn’t a question.

Oh, she was kidding. “I thought you’d gotten into the Google catacombs to get that one.” I laughed and let us enjoy our sandwiches for a few minutes. “So,” I said when I was nearly done, “now that I’ve buttered you up—”

“Not butter. This is ‘rooster sauce.’” She pointed at the orange condiment on the last bite of her sandwich.

“Okay.” I recalibrated for a second. “Now that I’ve... rooster sauced you?”

“That sounds indecent.”

“And illegal in eleven states.”

“Like your donut-dealing deeds?”

I shook my head, polishing off my sandwich. “Those are illegal in twenty-seven states, eight provinces, and half the EU. In Singapore, they carry the death penalty.”

Dr. Croft choked on her sparkling water. “I demand deadly donut-dealing deed details.”

“Doling out deadly donut-dealing deed details is disallowed by an NDA.”

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