“Then why hide behind a mask?” I ask. “Why not show the world who the real Guy is? The Wizard behind the curtain?”
Guy chuckles. “A book reference? How cliché.”
“I’ve got another one for you. The grass is greener. It’s nice being anonymous sometimes. It’s like you have permission to be fullyyou.”
“You’re too smart for clichés, Princess.”
Damnit. His words are heating something in my chest, and for a moment, I want to soak it in. His words. Who he could be. God, I hate being a romantic sap sometimes.
I don’t even know his real name, or what he looks like, or where he lives, or what he does for a living. I’ve known more about men from their Tinder profiles than Guy has told me in two weeks.
Guy clears his throat. “So, what kind of romance are you reading right now?”
“The morally grey kind,” I say. “The kind where the MMC would make you look like a Boy Scout.”
Guy chuckles. “Well, I was in Cub Scouts when I was a kid.”
“Well, look at you. You’re practically a saint.”
“I’m still the patron saint of bobby pins, Princess.”
My laugh sounds odd as it echoes around the room. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed in the bathroom before, and my voice sounds foreign.
Ding dong!
“Looks like the cake is here.” I bound back down the steps, Hawkeye watching me from his doggy bed. He liftshis head up in curiosity before giving up and settling his chin over his crossed paws.
A brown paper bag sits on the welcome mat. A delivery driver waves over his shoulder as he scurries back to his car.
I carry my sweet treat into the kitchen and rip open the bag, the staples popping wide open. I dig around inside and retrieve a square box, a wooden spork, and a slip of paper.
Order: one slice confetti cake
Delivery: Tristan, 1601 Columbus Avenue
Instructions: knock on door, leave delivery on front porch
Tristan? Is that his real name? Or maybe it was the cashier who took the order?
There’s only one way to find out.
“The cake’s here,” I tell him as I pop open the lid. A thick slab of cake with rainbow sprinkles greets me before the sugary smell wafts in the air.
“I hope you like the flavor,” he says.
“I do. Tristan.”
His pause stretches so long that it could span the Grand Canyon.
“What did you call me?” he asks with a flutter of panic in his voice.
“Tristan?” I say innocently. “That’s the name on the delivery slip.”
Tristan swears, and I can’t help but giggle. Not that it took any detective work, but it feels like I’ve one-upped one of the FBI’s Most Wanted.
It’s an incredible ego-boost.
“Relax,” I should put the poor guy out of his misery. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I don’t know how the hell I’d even begin to explain you anyway.”
