“Dad brought in a bunch of market research people. They worked their magic and came up with a list that your average comic book consumer would have, I guess.”

“Cool, cool, cool,” I say, taking another bite of my burger and frowning at the list because I am not average, not when it comes to picking books, and I resent the fact that some corporate suit developed some kind of algorithm that nearly figured me out. I’ve spent a lot of time curating my list, thank you very much.

“Anyway,” Gray says, shooting me a weird look, “after that, just start hanging out around the shop more, work the daughter angle—which feels a little sleazy, not going to lie, but Dad said it was your idea, and I trust you.”

“Yeah,” I mumble into my burger.

She leans forward a little to catch my eye. “It was your idea, right, Ridley?”

“Yeah,” I say, puffing out my chest. “Who else’s could it have been?”

“Right.” But it looks like she doesn’t believe me. And now? Is now when she’s going to look deeper? But then she goes back to eating and the look of concern slips away. “Enough work talk. How are things with Peak?”

And there it is, that little nagging feeling, subtle like having a piano dropped on my skull or stepping on a rusty nail.

imsuchanasshole

Deep breath. Compartmentalize. That’s all.

“She’s good,” I say, which is true. She’s been incredibly upbeat this whole week. It’s a little unnerving.

“Just good?”

“What do you want me to say? She’s great, I’m in love, we’re going to get married?” I shake my head. “We text, Gray—that’s it. She’s funny, she’s nice, but it’s not like it’s going anywhere.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not, Gray. Drop it.”

I don’t want to talk about her; Peak is mine, just for me, and even talking about it could dilute some of the magic. Or make things messier. I don’t know. I’m compartmentalizing over here or whatever, and Gray needs to let me.

“Wow, okay.” She crunches one of the boxes shut a little too hard. And oh no, I wanted tonight to be good.

“I’ll let you pick any show you want if you drop it.”

She freezes, looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “Even my werewolves?”

“Oh my god, Grayson, you are too old for that show.”

“You’re never too old for werewolves. That’s a fact. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

“They’re barely even werewolves! They’re like Hollister models with five-o’clock shadows.”

“Oh, so werewolves can’t be hot? That’s speciesist, Ridley. I’m disappointed.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Good—so you agree, then, werewolves are hot?”

“Oh my god,” I groan, tossing her the remote.