Frenemies

It paired well with ramen.

One time, the store was out of her favorite wine, and I had to buy her a more expensive bottle, so naturally, I’d paid for it. Ever since that day, she’d always asked me to get her the cheap wine when it was her money, but always mentioned the more expensive bottle when it was mine.

I glanced at the bottle.

It was the same brand I used to buy her in college—with my money.

I hid a smile and kicked off my shoes to sit back on the sofa. Immy was already sitting in the corner with her legs crossed and the pizza box balancing on her lap. The little pot of ranch was in the corner of that box, and the garlic bread balls were on the middle cushion between us.

I’d steal one when she wasn’t looking.

I cracked open a beer and took a long drink, then ate. I’d never understood Friends despite the number of hours I’d been forced to watch it by Immy. It had just never been my kind of show, but now, I found myself snorting along when she laughed.

Damn it.

Now I was going to have to watch this on my own time—like I had any of that spare.

“I can hear you laughing.” Immy licked her fingers and reached for a napkin. “I know you’re enjoying this.”

“It’s shit,” I lied. “I still don’t understand the point of the show.”

“Not everything has to have a point to it, Mason. Just because you like documentaries with a purpose doesn’t mean we all like our entertainment to be educational.”

“True, but it means I’m great at quizzes.”

“When do you quiz?”

“Quiz shows on TV.”

“Have you ever been on one?”

“I don’t have the time to be on one, Imogen.”

“Right. So you watch documentaries to expand your knowledge for the sole purpose of sitting on your sofa and feeling good about yourself when you’re smarter than the contestants on quiz shows?”

“Don’t you watch dating shows for a similar reason?”

“Yeah, no, a parade of tall, size two blondes who resemble supermodels chasing after a tall, dark, handsome as hell guy really makes me feel good about myself. Especially when I’m wearing stained sweats, a paint-covered shirt, and haven’t washed my hair in three days.”

My lips twitched. “Maybe that was the wrong comparison to use.”

“Ya think?”

I held up my hands in defeat and closed the pizza box before reaching for napkins myself. “All right, it definitely was.”

“Mm.” She wiped her mouth and put the pizza box on the table to pick up her wine.

I reached over and grabbed the last garlic bread ball.

Immy’s jaw dropped, and she glared at me. “Hey!”

I shoved it in my mouth in response.

“I can’t believe you ate the last one!”

“I paid for it!” I said around a mouthful of the—so good—ball.

She shook her head and scooted to the edge of the sofa. “The audacity. That was the crispiest one. I was saving it for last.”

I swallowed it and grinned. “You’re right. They are good.”

“I don’t have to put up with this. I’ve done my good deed for the day; amusing you is not going to be the second.” She scooped up the glass of wine and the bottle and got up.

I watched as she passed me, amused. “Are you taking my wine glass home, then?”

She paused, looked down, then met my eyes. Without blinking, she brought the glass to her lips and tipped it back, downing the entire thing in one go. She came back and put it on the coffee table, and with one swipe of the corner of her mouth, she said, “No.”

“Imogen.”

“Goodnight, Mason.”

Her faux outrage was adorable. Or maybe it wasn’t fake—I didn’t know, but I did know she was being a little drama queen.

I got up from the sofa and chased after her before she could make it to the front door. I darted around her, backing myself up against the door so she couldn’t get the handle.

“I said goodnight, Mason.” She pouted at me.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“You ate my food. That’s a cardinal sin where I’m from.”

“You’re from the house next door.”

“Oh, shut up and let me go home.”

“Nope.” I folded my arms across my chest. “You’re looking for an excuse to leave because you can’t admit that you enjoy hanging out with me.”

She cleared her throat. “I can barely stand your company, thank you very much.”

“You know, it’s amazing you ate so much, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Considering how full of shit you are.”

Her mouth formed a perfect little ‘o.’ “Excuse me?”

“Do I really have to explain more?”

“I am not full of shit!”

“If you really hated me, you wouldn’t bring your grandma’s baking. You wouldn’t have helped me in my catastrophe with the burned popcorn and the rogue fire alarm, and you sure as hell wouldn’t have driven me across town to the emergency vet clinic and eaten dinner with me tonight.”