There’s a bag in his hands.
A paper bag.
And not just any bag. A very specific, orange-and-green printed bag with a little smear of curry oil on the corner. I know that bag like I know the birthmarks on my own butt.
That’s Punjabi Palace takeout.
“Peace offering,” Monty says, holding it up like a white flag that smells like garlic naan and emotional manipulation.
My stomach, betrayer of the century, growls so loudly I swear the hallway echoes with its shame.
I clutch my bathrobe tighter around me like it’ll protect me from the scent. It won’t. The rich, buttery perfume of chicken tikka and spice wafts into the doorway like a seductive little ghost.
“Seriously?” I hiss, stepping back an inch. “You show up with my kryptonite?”
He shrugs, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “You al
