“And do you not like licorice or something? You look like you’re in pain.” He glared down at the bag. “Ophelia likes the red pieces, but they only come mixed with the black ones, from that candy store on Chartres Street. She always gets excited at the fact that we can split a bag, because she eats all the red ones—and I eat all the black.” “Except you clearly hate them,” Genevieve reasoned. “Something neither of us will ever tell her,” he said pointedly as he popped another one into his mouth. “Understood?”
