Satan. Donut Douche was the spawn of Satan! Satan, the King of Hell, had a son, who wanted to own my eternal soul.

I toasted and buttered viciously. Well, if he thought I’d give up without a fight, he clearly hadn’t done his research.

And I was going to fight dirty.

I clambered up onto the kitchen bench and stuffed a triangle of toast into my mouth.

Bang! Bang bang!

My heart leapt into my throat, and I sucked in a breath, then immediately coughed and spluttered toast crumbs everywhere. Was it him? Was this his plan? I’d barely wrapped my head around this quandary! But of course that would make sense. Keeping me off-kilter would make it all the more difficult for me to beat him at this little game.

This little game where the prize was my soul …

I just wouldn’t answer the door. Simple. I snorted around another mouthful of toast.

“For the love of … Jemma! Open the damn door!”

I groaned, sliding off the bench and massaging my temples. It was worse than Satan Junior.

It was Joe.

“I know you’re in there! Ezra texted me!” my brother shouted through the door.

“Ezra!” I muttered, chancing a glance into the living room. It was a complete shemozzle. Luci had found an eggshell she’d pilfered a week ago and was gnawing on it from a crevice in the sofa cushions, glaring beadily at me as if daring me to move her. The rug was still partially rolled up from where I’d had to move it to clean up the Thai food … which I hadn’t done the most thorough job of.

And then there was the empty wine cask and fingerprint-smudged wine glass …

“I’m using my spare key, Jemma!” Joe announced. I leapt into action, scampering around the kitchen bench and hurling myself at the coffee table. I knocked the empty cask behind the sofa, tugged the rug back into place so it covered the smear of satay on the floor …

Nope, that was worse. The food stain on the rug was huge!

The lock snicked, and the door creaked open. I snatched up the wine glass and jumped to my feet, hiding it behind my back as I turned to face Joe.

He glowered down at me. He was in his weekend wear—basketball shorts, a workout tank with a towel around his neck, and the latest high-tech gym shoes. He was still wearing his earbuds.

He worked out seven days a week.

“Morning!” I squeaked, then cleared my throat with a frown. Did I really squeak that often? The devilish dickwad had called me ‘Mouse’ again this morning.

“Ezra made it sound like you might be in dire need of a trip to the emergency department and a stomach pump,” Joe snapped, his eyes roving over my hair—drying into pastel tangles because I hadn’t brushed it yet—and my clothing. “Do you ever dress appropriately?”