Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“What the hell are you doing lurking in here?” My pulse skids from the near heart attack she just handed me. “You trying to kill me?”
Birdie doesn’t even flinch. She tilts her head, eyes bright and a faint smirk already forming. “You’re the one sneaking in like a burglar at O-dark-thirty.”
“I am not sneaking,” I say automatically, even as my shoulders stay tense, my body still halfway braced for a threat that’s already been identified as my sister.
She lifts one eyebrow—slow, pointed—and lets her gaze drop to my hands.
“You’re carrying your shoes,” she says, “so you don’t make any noise.”
I glance down like I’ve noticed this inconvenient fact for the first time. “I’m merely trying not to track dirt in.”
“Puh-leeze,” she drawls, pushing off the counter and closing the distance between us. “You’re being very shady and secretive. Which means…” She squints at me, head cocked, like she’s solving a puzzle she already knows the answer to.
I straighten, instantly defensive. “None of your business.”
Her mouth curves, victory flashing across her face. “Oooh. That means it’s a girl.”
“It does not mean that,” I snap.
She grins wider. “That wasn’t convincing.”
“I said it’s none of your business.”
Birdie turns away like the conversation is already over and reaches for the coffee maker. The click of the machine sounds absurdly loud in the quiet house. She pours water into the reservoir, grabs two mugs from the cabinet, all of it with the casual confidence of someone who knows she’s won.
“Relax,” she says, not even looking at me now. “You don’t have to be shy or embarrassed. I know you have sex.”
“I’m aware,” I retort, scrubbing a hand over my face as I step farther into the kitchen. The overhead lights stay off, the space lit only by the faint glow under the cabinets and the early gray seeping through the windows.
She glances back at me, eyes dancing. “Good. Because for a second there, I thought maybe you were sneaking in because you’d joined a monastery.”
“Can we not do this?” I ask.
“Oh, we’re absolutely doing this,” she says cheerfully. “You came home smiling. Quiet-sneaking. Pre-coffee hours. All the signs are there.”
I scoff, flattening my mouth. “I am not smiling.”
She hums, entirely unconvinced, and presses the button. The machine whirs to life, filling the silence between us.
“Was it a one-night thing?” she asks lightly. “Because if it was, no judgment. If it wasn’t, also no judgment. If you don’t know yet—”
“Birdie.”
She holds up a hand. “Still no judgment.”
I glare at her, but it doesn’t carry much weight when she’s already pouring coffee like she owns the morning.
And the house.
And apparently my personal life.
She slides a mug across the counter toward me. “So,” she says, leaning back against the island, arms crossed, studying me like I’m a case file. “Who is she? One-night stand? Two-night stand? Mystery woman who lives in a high-rise and owns more throw pillows than furniture?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, eyes squeezed shut, as if pressure alone might shove this conversation straight out of my skull. My heartbeat is still a little too fast, my nerves a little too raw for this—whatever this is.
“Please stop,” I beg.
She doesn’t. Of course, she doesn’t.
“Was she hot?” Birdie asks, mug cradled between her hands like she’s settling in for story time. “Don’t answer that. I already know the answer is yes.”
I blow out a slow breath through my nose, counting it. One. Two. Three. This is the problem with Birdie—she treats every boundary like a polite suggestion.
“Birdie.”
She turns fully toward me, eyes bright and curious. Her mouth curves slightly. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not.” The denial comes too fast. Too defensive.
“You are,” she says, delighted now, like she smells blood in the water.
Heat creeps up my neck anyway, traitorous and unmistakable, causing me to rub at it. I open my mouth to deny it again, to throw out a dismissive or deflective or suitably gruff rebuke—
And instead, the truth slips loose.
“It was Juno.”
The name hangs there between us, heavy and exposed. Birdie freezes, eyes as round as an owl’s. “Oh,” she says softly.
I stare at the floor, jaw tight, already regretting it.
Birdie’s expression finally changes, eyebrows shooting up. “Oooh,” she repeats, drawling this time with meaning.
Then—
“Oh my god!”
Birdie stares at me for half a second—long enough for everything to click into place—before she bursts out laughing. Not a polite chuckle. Not a snort. Full-on, doubled-over laughter that has her bracing one hand on the counter to stay upright.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, breathless. “You slept with Juno.”
I wince. “Keep your voice down.”
She stops laughing, straightening enough to really look at me, incredulity flashing across her face. “Who’s going to hear me?” She throws her arms wide. “It’s only you and me, dude.”
“Christ, why do you have to be so annoying?” I mutter.
Birdie chuckles. “Juno,” she says again, slower this time. Like she’s tasting it. “Sweet, competent, terrifyingly perceptive Juno.”