My laughter as I saw him out quickly turned into a pained groan as I fell against the closed door. I didn’t even care if he was still on the other side. The weight of what just happened was way more important.
I’d been in his kitchen. He’d been topless. There was touching and I could’ve sworn there was a look or two. He saw my stuff. He called me a fan. A fan!
“Oh, God.”
Deep, harrowing mortification formed the base layer of my Friendsgiving outfit. I was sure everyone would pick up on it despite the cute cashmere sweater and brown corduroy slacks.
But as my guests started arriving, I was forced to push my feelings aside so we could start having fun. My apartment smelled like an impossible fusion of some kind of holiday, and the table groaned under the weight of all the food.
“You’ve outdone yourself this year,” Rosemary said, tucking her napkin under her chin. “Thanks for taking my Chipotle suggestion.”
“The yams look and smell amazing.” Otto’s eyes rolled back as he took a deep inhale over the bowl.
For the first time all day, I let myself stop panicking.
Wine glasses clinked. Someone queued up a low, jazzy playlist that hummed through the apartment without demanding attention. The chatter layered over itself in that familiar, comforting way, jokes overlapping, people talking with their mouths half full, laughter breaking out in pockets around the table. My shoulders finally dropped from somewhere near my ears.
This was it. This was the whole point.
I leaned back in my chair, fork resting against my plate, and took a moment to just look at them. My friends. My weird, loud, opinionated little family. The food was disappearing at a pace that suggested no one was being polite about seconds, which was exactly the kind of compliment I thrived on.
I smiled into my wine and took a sip.
Then there was a knock at the door. It cut clean through the room like a record scratch. Conversation stuttered, and forks froze mid-air. I glanced around the table and marked everyone as present, which made it even weirder.
“Why are you all looking at me? I don’t have any other friends.”
That earned a few snorts, but curiosity had already taken over. I pushed my chair back and stood, smoothing my hands over my thighs as I headed for the door, still confused.
I opened it, and my full belly did cartwheels over itself.
Because, once again, ladies and gentlemen, Landon.
“I’m wearing a shirt.” He seemed proud of himself.
I stared at him, brain buffering hard. “I noticed.”
He smiled then, eyes flicking past me toward the warm glow of my apartment, the noise, the smell of food.
“Is it too late to change my mind about dinner?”
4
Landon
The coffee cart was already doing brisk business when I stepped out of the hotel with Mason, breath fogging in front of my face as the Missouri cold slapped me awake better than caffeine ever could.
Early December in St. Louis felt mean about it. The air cut straight through my sweats, found every bad decision I’d made about not wearing a heavier jacket, and punished me for it. No sun. Just gray piled on gray, the street damp from a night rain that hadn’t bothered to fully clear out.
“Tell me again why we didn’t get room service,” I said, falling into step beside Mason.
“Because you always go overboard and make us late,” he replied, already fishing his wallet out of his pocket. “And because this way, the cold can wake you up.”
“I don’t need waking up. I’m ready to go.”
“That’s what worries me.”
The cart was wedged on the corner across from the hotel, steam rolling off the metal urns, the guy inside bundled like he planned to survive the apocalypse. Blues banners hung from the lampposts down the block, blue and gold everywhere, logosstamped on awnings, windows, even the damn trash cans. Different city, different attitude. Less flash, but way more grind.
