And as we walk up the carpeted path to the grand, arched doors, I try not to wonder if he’s already here.
If he’s waiting inside.
If I’m about to get my answers—or my heart broken.
Either way, I square my shoulders and lift my chin.
Let the holiday chaos begin.
Chapter 17
Eb
“You blew past at least three red lights,” Bobby grumbles from the passenger seat, clutching his stupid crutches like they’re going to save him from my wrath.
I growl—low and warning—but don’t answer.
Because if I open my mouth, I’ll start yelling.
And if I start yelling, I might crash the truck.
And if I crash the truck, I’ll definitely miss my chance to see Marigold before the gala.
And I can’t.
Not tonight.
Not ever again.
“Relax,” Bobby says, like he’s not the reason I’m cutting it this close in the first place. “She’s probably just?—”
“If you finish that sentence with baking cookies, or getting dressed, I swear I will duct tape that cast to your face.”
“Okay, damn,” he mutters, holding up his hands. “Remind me not to interrupt your dramatic love spiral next time.”
I don’t answer. I’m too busy gripping the steering wheel like it owes me child support and praying to every God, Guardian, and Granter of Fated Mates, that I haven’t completely screwed this up.
Pretty fucking please.
By the time I screech to a stop in front of the bakery, I’ve got thirty minutes until the gala starts.
Thirty. Freaking. Minutes.
I slam the truck into park and am already halfway out before Bobby can say another word.
“Stay in the car.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll just chill here with my shattered ankle bones and a bag of gummy bears. No biggie.”
I’m already halfway across the sidewalk when I catch a whiff of her.
Honey. Cinnamon. A little citrus.
That’s her.
My Marigold.
God, my Badger goes stupid at the scent.
