Whatever Goldie finds after her silent inspection, she apparently decides she’s okay with it. “Would you two like to come in for a drink?” she asks. “I have the most delicious tap water. And three more servings of hot chocolate that I need to drink in the next few days, but I’m guessing that’ll be anofrom both of you.”
Unfortunately, she’s correct. “Water’s great. Thanks.”
“And cookies sound delicious. Thank you too.” She pushes away from the door, winces, and when she steps into her apartment, she’s limping.
Every protective instinct I’ve ever had in my life goes on alert and I leap through the doorway too fast, getting too close. “What happened? Are you okay? Who hurt you? Shit. Did I do that? Or was it the hot sauce? Tell me it wasn’t the hot sauce.”
Her lips tip up again despite the wince. “It was not the hot sauce.”
“So you didn’t have any…unwanted side effects?”
She pauses at that, and her smile gets bigger. “Not at all. You?”
“Hot sauce doesn’t bother me.”
She makes a noise that tells me she knows I’m lying.
Bloody hell.
If Silas told her about my issue in the bathroom at training this morning, I’ll fucking kill him.
She takes another step, clearly favoring her left side, and my heart lurches again. “What happened? Why are you limping?”
“Snowstorm’s coming. I’ll be fine tomorrow. Or the day after.”
“Forecast is clear for the next two weeks.”
“Okay, Mr. Trust The Forecast.”
Sweet Pea barks and grins.
She has a keen appreciation for sarcasm. Especially when it’s directed at me.
We follow Goldie the rest of the way into her apartment. There’s a single pink floral chair in the living area that wasn’t here the last time, draped with a lumpy blue fleece blanket. Piles of empty boxes. A half-full trash bag. The bookshelves are still heavy with paperbacks and hardback books, plus a few trinkets. A wooden hummingbird, a bobblehead of the Scorned’s mascot, a framed picture of Goldie with Hallie on the same carousel horses we rode yesterday.
I moved enough as a kid that I recognize the boxes both assembled and flat on her floor. They’re heavy-duty. Smaller.
She needs to pack her books.
And she’s grimacing again as she limps into the efficient kitchen, opens a white cabinet, and pulls out a plain white bowl, plus the solitary pint glass still inside.
It’s a Copper Valley Scorned pint glass.
Wonder if she’s leaving them behind.
I follow her into the small kitchen and set the cookie on the counter. “You usually feel it like this when the forecast is clear?”
“I called a snowstorm ahead of the meteorologist once four years ago, and I called it again two winters ago when I hadn’t checked the weather in a few days. Only time I’ve felt it this intense since I got hurt.”
“How many inches?”
She sticks the glass under the faucet and fills it with water. “At least a foot.”
I was halfway expecting her to make a joke back aboutmyinches.
Then, because I’m that guy, I pull out my phone and check my weather app.
Nothing—oh.
