“Yeah. Sorry. What were you saying?”
“Dates,” James says. “Austin is bringing his best friend. Scotty is going solo. Hayes is too, but remains optimistic.”
“I’m keeping my options open,” the rookie clarifies.
“And you?” Austin asks.
All five pairs of eyes land on me.
“What?” I ask.
“Are you bringing Winnie?” Hayes asks.
Am I? We’ve been … whatever we are … for months now. Stolen moments, coffee deliveries, late-night texts that light me up. But I never officially asked her to be my date.
How did I fail at this crucial detail?
“I need to ask her properly,” I mutter.
“You’d better do it fast. The clock is ticking,” Austin says.
Hayes waggles his eyebrows. “If you don’t?—”
“Don’t you dare.”
“So you’re telling her about the bet first, right?” Reese asks.
James leans forward. “Before you ask her to be your date?”
My stomach drops. The bet. The stupid, idiotic bet that started this whole mess. “I’ll tell her.”
The guys exchange dubious looks as if they don’t believe me.
“Your funeral,” Austin mutters.
Mid-afternoon, we get called out for a wellness check on an elderly man who sometimes forgets to charge his phone, sending his granddaughters into a panic.
He’s fine, but we did have to force entry. Turns out he just had his hearing aids out while napping, sending his toy poodle into a barking fit and hiding under the basement crawlspace. It was a whole thing.
As we’re leaving, I catch myself thinking about how much Iwant to tell Winnie about this. I wonder if she’s a cat or dog person. Does she like pets? Did she and her brother have one when growing up? There’s so much I want to say, to ask. So little I know.
The thought stops me cold.
Not just wanting to share the story. Needing to. Like my day isn’t complete until I’ve told her about it, heard her laugh, seen her eyes light up. Listen to her answer my questions, hear her talk about herself.
It’s official. I’m in love with her and want her to be my date.
After my shift, I head over to Crush Cakes to do inventory.
James is there, moving fifty-pound bags of flour and I chip in, welcoming the mindless work.
When we’re done, he slides onto a stool. “Talk to me, Mav.”
“About what?”
“About whatever is making you count the same box of sprinkles three times.”
Having returned to my original inventory task, I set down my clipboard. “I’m in love with her.”
