EMMA
“Delivery for Carson.”
I blink at the sullen delivery boy in the Uber Eats vest. “I didn’t order anything.”
He shrugs, completely deadpan. “It was ordered for you. There’s a note.”
Without further ado, he shoves the two flat boxes into my arms. I’m immediately overwhelmed with the smell of garlic and cheese. The note tacked to the front of the box reads simply, “So you’ve got one less thing on your plate today before the game—Ruslan.”
It’s so strange to think that, just a couple of months ago, I thought Ruslan Oryolov was the spawn of Satan. The man hell-bent on ruining my life and putting me in an early grave. But somehow, in a matter of weeks, he’s become the knight in shining armor I never knew I needed.
How did he even know about Josh’s game?
Well, clearly, Josh told him. B
