RugbyFletch: I’ll keep that in mind.
19
Fletcher
Goldie Collins has officially overtakenher brother as my least-favorite person on the planet.
How?
By making me like her.
I don’t generally give two shits who I like and who I don’t like.
But I don’t like that I like Goldie.
I think about her when I fall asleep because I reread her messages right before bed, like a total fucking moron. I think about her when I wake up since I thought about her until I fell asleep. I think about her when I’m walking Sweet Pea and pass Goldie’s flat or the wine bar or the restaurant where we had cooking class. I think about her when I see cheese.
I think about her when I see her brother, who’s still a douche-wanker.
And I think about her when I stop into the bookstore in ourneighborhood after training the day after she posted that picture of us.
Do they have a massive display of Goldie’s books in the window prompting me to think about her?
No.
That’s near the back of the store.
And even if they didn’t, I’d still think about her.
She’s at the top of my brain while I scowl at the small sports section near the back of the main level. The shop is busy. No shortage of customers.
Andthisis the sports section.
Not even two full rows, every last book about hockey. No football. No baseball. No soccer. No rugby.
Just hockey.
What thehell?
I’m working up my charming face before I go hunt down the manager when a pint-sized human in a tiara and a knight costume sprints around a row of books and almost crashes into me.
I squat down to her level and hover a hand at her side while she catches her balance.
Shelooks like the pirate Goldie accusedmeof being at the wedding last weekend, weaving and steadying herself. And the last thing any of us need is for a kid to crack her head on a bookshelf.
“Okay there, Madame Knight Pipsqueak?” I say in my best British accent. Seems to fit.
She stares at me with big hazel eyes. Creepy-crawlies inch up my spine.
Have I met this kid?
“Doggie!” she squeals.
Sweet Pea shifts in her sling, wagging her tail as she pokes her little nose toward the kid, who pets her with a force that Sweet Pea tolerates like bangs on the head are the only affection she gets all day.
Little liar.
“You like dogs?” Duh, Huxley. Of course she likes dogs.
