When I open the door, Addison is standing in jeans and a white T-shirt with her hair down and no makeup. Her natural beauty catches me off guard.
“You summoned me,” she says with a smirk.
“Iinvitedyou.” I step inside, allowing her in.
“The note said:Come to my loft at nine. Don’t be late.”
“Apologies. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, so I’m a bit hangry. Glad you’re here,” I say.
She inhales deeply, and her whole face changes. “Do I smell pizza?”
“The best fucking pizza you’ll ever eat.”
“I’m excited. Honestly, I forgot to eat dinner. I was going to wing it with ramen.” She wanders into the kitchen and examines the setup, trailing her fingers along the counter. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Accept my fate gracefully, apparently.”
“That’s a good one.” She laughs, and the tension I’ve been carrying all day starts to ease.
I pull the pizza from the oven and slice it, then pour us each a glass of wine. We eat standing at the counter. It feels natural to bump elbows and fight over the last piece with the most cheese.
“This is really good,” she says around a mouthful. “Like, annoyingly good.”
“Told you.”
“I expect this, like, once a week,” she says.
“Don’t tempt me.”
We finish eating, and I refill our wineglasses. Before we leave the kitchen, I reach into my pocket and pull out a key. It’s small, bronze, ordinary-looking.
Addison stares at it as I extend it to her. “What’s this?”
“A key to my loft.”
She doesn’t take it immediately. “Is this the royal equivalent of asking me to move in?”
“It’s me telling you to come when you want. This can be our escape.”
She takes it and holds it in her palm, studying it like it’s a puzzle piece.
When she looks up at me, her eyes sparkle. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I want you here, Addison.”
She slides the key into her pocket, and we move to the couch with our wine. She tucks her feet under her and angles her body toward me before glancing at the little black book on the coffee table.
“What’s this?” she asks, picking it up.
“You should absolutely give that to me right now,” I tell her, knowing the names and scores of every single woman I’ve ever gone on a date with are listed between those pages.
“Is it your diary?” she asks, holding it out of reach, where I can’t grab it.
“Something like that.” I lunge for it, and she twists away, laughing. “Give it back.”
“Now I have to know what’s in here.” She’s grinning, holding it behind her back. “What are you hiding, Your Highness?”
“Nothing good,” I tell her.
