He took a sip of the coffee. It was terrible. He didn’t tell her that.
Elliot looked down. He did. He had no idea how long it had been there. He had walked through the entire laundromat, past the barista next door, and probably down the entire block with a fluttering white flag of incompetence trailing behind him.
“You killed my socks,” he said, because his brain had apparently short-circuited.
Luna paused at the door, her velvet cape draped over one arm. She smiled that crooked smile again.
“Worst so far,” she corrected cheerfully, finally getting to her feet. She dusted off her corduroy blazer, which now had a wet patch shaped like Florida. “But don’t worry. I’m about to fix that.”