I sweep up my tea and scone in one hand, then catch the door with the other, holding it open for Bea.

“Off I go,” she says. “Ooh! Wait. I almost forgot.”

Rummaging through her bag, Bea unearths a glass jar with a screw-top lid.

“Maybe this is weird,” she says, “but this is my grandma’s homemade hand salve. I thought—” She nods toward my raw hands. “Maybe it would help give you some relief. Cracked fingertips are painful.”

“You’re . . . giving that to . . . me.”

“Yes,” she says slowly. “Is that okay? If it’s not, no worries. I’ll use it eventually—”

“No!” That came out louder than I meant it to. “You can just . . . set it in my coat pocket.”

Bea takes a step toward me, then slips the jar inside my pocket. Suddenly, I’m aware of every inch of her body. Every inch of mine. She stands beneath my outstretched arm, close and warm, her soft scent wrapping around me. Our eyes hold as I stare down at her.

“Thank you,” I finally manage. “For the hand salve, and my tea, and the scone. No one’s . . . no one’s ever done something like this for me. It was very thoughtful.”

She frowns, as if perplexed. But then the frown dissolves and she’s smiling again as she takes a step back. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

Friends.

Right.

· SEVENTEEN ·

Bea

I can’t lie. This newfound power I have over my friends and the traitorous twin is kind of priceless. Even at work, I have leverage like never before. Jules keeps making my favorite meals, trying to coax details out of me as I chow down. Sula and Toni butter me up with favors at work while fishing for juicy details. They’re all hopelessly curious about how things are going with Jamie, and while I thought I’d have to lie out of my ass to get these fools to believe he and I are the real deal, turns out being mysterious works even better.

I am keeping them in total suspense. Revenge is glorious.

“Another raspberry thumbprint?” Toni offers, sweeping a plate of still-warm cookies under my nose.

“Probably shouldn’t,” I tell him. Eyes on my sketch, I elaborate the concept, creeping wisteria along a weathered wood trellis. But my pen keeps deviating from gossamer flowers to the tall silhouette of a man leaning inside its arch. Shirtless. Lithe. Tidy waves mussed in the wind. Tortoiseshell glasses.

“Bea,” Toni groans. “I’m dying. Won’t you tell me anything?”

“Maybe.” I slip another cookie from the plate and pop it in my mouth. I’m going to ruin my dinner appetite, but I can’t stop. “Only because these cookies are damn good.”

Toni lets out a whoop of victory, hands over his head.

“And if you take the delivery today.”

His arms fall. “You are evil.”