I stared at the words until they blurred slightly, reading them over and over like they might disappear if I didn’t memorize them quickly enough.
He wanted a next time.
And he’d called Debbie “our little chef.”
Our.
I know, I know. The guy was basically a stranger with hot crossed buns. He didn’t mean “our” in the sense of “we” were anything. He was just turning a phrase. Still, the word sent a warm flutter through my chest that had nothing to do withcaffeine and everything to do with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t imagined the connection I’d felt across that pasta-laden table.
Yeah, this was bad.
I was reverting into one of my fourteen-year-old freshmen.
Next thing I knew, someone might catch me passing notes in class.
Sweet caramel Sundays.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, composing and deleting responses faster than I could think them through.
Me: She’s much better this morning, thank you for asking. I’m sorry again about last night.
Back, back, back, back, back.
Me: She’s fine! And I’d love a next time too.
Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack. Too eager.
Me: Debbie’s back to her usual tornado self. Dinner was lovely, by the way.
Delete. Delete. Delete. Lovely? I wasnotBritish. Way too formal.
Finally, I settled on something that felt honest without being too vulnerable:
Me: She’s completely back to normal—apparently throwing up gives kids an appetite for pancakes at six AM. Thank you for being so understanding. I had a really nice time.
I hit send before I could second-guess myself, then immediately wondered if I should have been more enthusiastic or less grateful or mentioned something specific about theevening that showed I’d been paying attention. Then again, Jeremiah didn’t seem to be much of a detail kind of guy, so I was probably okay with the novelette of a text I’d sent. My kids would’ve sent some weird abbreviation even the Enigma couldn’t untangle.
But it was out there now, floating through cyberspace toward those blue eyes and that devastating smile.
Chapter 12
Jeremiah
The late August heat smacked me across the face every time I stepped out of my poorly air-conditioned truck. Even at four in the afternoon, the Atlanta humidity clung to everything like sap on bark, turning my uniform into a second skin of damp fabric that stuck to my back and chest.
I was sweating my balls off, and now, checking my route sheet, my stomach dropped. I recognized the next address.
49 Maple Street.
Cuddles.
I pulled up to the nearby curb and shifted into park. The golden hellhound lounged on the front porch like some kind of deceptively fluffy prison warden, her tail wagging slowly as she spotted my truck.
The moment I stepped out, her demeanor changed.
The wagging stopped.
Her ears flattened against her head.
