Twelve
Frances
Before Ivy’s father could tell more about his magical night, Martha returned from the kitchen with a tray with a pot of tea and colourful mugs. She put them down on the coffee table and Ivy passed one to me.
“No crabs on this one,” I muttered to her.
“What? Crabs? Oh! Frances, shh!” She shot me a glare but I could see the amusement flicking in her eyes.
There, that was three for three on the teasing front. I shuffled a little closer to her, like I would if I was madly in love with her, and draped one arm over the back of the couch, somewhat cuddling her. It felt really awkward and wrong so I quickly pulled it back, not before Ivy shot me a knowing grin.
Martha disappeared again, no doubt to finish cooking, and Walt happily chat with Ivy about everything and nothing. Ev
