Fuck it. She’s leaving. We’re letting the world think we’re dating. Even if all I do is walk into her building and Shade takes a picture and leaks it online, then I’m here for something other than being obsessed with a woman I don’t need in my life.
No matter how much I like her.
But I can’t show up at her flat empty-handed when I have information in my back pocket that says she likes the stupid-expensive gourmet cookies from one very specific local place.
And I can’t walk into her building while carrying her favorite local cookies without heading up to her flat.
She’ll see the post talking about me taking her cookies and think it’s weird that I never showed up. Plus, after tea yesterday and all of last week’s food, I can’t eat it myself. Nor can I feed it to my dog. It’d make Sweet Pea sick.
And I can’t loiter in the hallway without knocking on Goldie’s door.
That would be weird too.
So I stand there in the ivory-walled hallway and knock at the navy blue door with the gold lion head knocker on it, same as I did when I picked her up for the wedding.
I doubt she’s home. She’s trying to pack as much as possible into her last days here. But I wait long enough to assume she’s not here before I pull open my phone to check my Instagram messages and see if her friend who wrote my mustache an obituary would deliver a cookie for me.
She’s in one of the other flats in this building. If I can track her down, I can give her Goldie’s cookie.
And that’s when the door opens beside me. “If you’re looking for a rematch with the Monopoly queen, unfortunately, my games are already in storage.”
I glance back, and there she is.
Goldie.
Leaning in her doorway in purple pajama pants decorated with cartoon hummingbirds, an oversize Copper Valley Thrusters Pride T-shirt, fluffy yellow slippers, and a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes despite the teasing note in her voice.
Her face is scrubbed clean and her hair is down, falling over her shoulders in silky dark waves. She looks like she’s three friends and six pillows short of an epic pillow fight night, and that image has my overactive dick doing his thing again.
Sweet Pea notices.
Swear she does.
She half growls and glares at me like she’s ordering me to keep it in my pants.
“Just wanted to say thanks. For coming. To training.” Stutter much, Huxley? Jesus. I’m a thirteen-year-old boy again.
I could’ve DM’ed her that. “And Sweet Pea wanted to say sorry for dragging your pants through my apartment when I had another visitor this morning.”
Goldie eyes the shimmery gold cookie box in my hand, then smiles at my dog, leaning in to scratch her ears and get within licking distance.
Of the dog, I mean.
Technically I could lick her too. She’sthis close. And she smells like cupcakes and temptation, both of which I enjoy licking.
“Did you bring me something good, Sweet Pea?” she says. “Did you? Who’s such a kind, thoughtful puppy?”
“It was all Sweet Pea,” I assure Goldie. “I wouldn’t have been this thoughtful on my own.”
Her smile broadens. “That looks suspiciously like a Freckle Cookies box.”
“You have a good eye for cookie boxes.”
She’s still scratching my dog’s ears while she studies me again. I think she’s looking for my hidden agenda.
As though it’s not obvious that I like her and want to spend time with her and the pictures are all an excuse.
Bonus that my dog is getting extra pets from someone she adores.
