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“Oh my god.” Bridget gave me just three rules for the trip. Number 1. Eat your weight in oysters. “You’re Bee,” Felix said. I was shaking my head, even though he was right. I was Bee. Number 2. Leave the city behind. I tore my sight from the toad, under which I knew was a set of keys. “You’re Wolf,” I murmured. “You’re Bridget’s . . .” The nausea hit me with such dizzying force, I couldn’t finish the sentence. I covered my mouth with an unsteady hand. And Number 3. Don’t fall in love with my brother. “Yeah,” Felix said. “Bridget’s my sister.”
I should probably make us something resembling a meal. While my greatest culinary achievement is predicting the winners of The Great British Baking Show,
He smiled at me. “The most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers,”
A good friendship origin story involves a villain.
We ate fried egg and cheddar sandwiches on toasted rye and watched The Great British Baking Show, my preferred comfort viewing.
“I’m making bacon and French toast,” he says. “Of course you are.” He smiles. “Meaning?” “Meaning French toast is my favorite.” “I know.” “Meaning you’re perfect.”
“Carrots,” he says, “are very good for you.” “You,” I tell him, “are very good for me.”
