The dogs bolt, the stampede shifting directions and freeing the poor guy from his slobbery dog-pile demise.
He exhales like he just survived battle. “Thanks,” he mutters, brushing himself off as he grabs his sunglasses from the ground. He straightens his coat and awkwardly pats at his shoulder, trying to wipe off a streak of goop. No luck.
“Ah! There you are.” He grabs the collar of a black dog nearby and clips on a leash.
“You named your girl dog Bruno?” I ask, raising a brow. It’s definitely a she—hard to miss during the full-body dog hug from earlier.
His eyes widen slightly before his face smooths back into neutral. Sunglasses on. Expression blank.
“Um. Yeah. Named her after that song no one can stop singing.”
I laugh again, shaking my head. “Bold choice.”
I open my mouth to introduce myself, but he suddenly turns, mutters, “See you around,” and walks off like he’s late for something.
I glance down to reclaim my seat… but freeze.
A single white daisy sits at the edge of the bench.
I slowly bend to pick it up, recognition crashing over me.
The Gilded Bean.
The mysterious stud muffin. But without the hat this time.
I turn around to stare at his retreating back and wonder whether I’ll see him here again.
And I was right.
Hedoeshave gorgeous eyes.
Chapter Eight
OOPS, I PEPPERONI’D AGAIN
“Well, we’re down to stale cereal with no milk, instant pancake mix, or crusty bread with no butter as dinner options,” Casey announces from the kitchen. “We’ve even run out of ramen.”
It’s a typical Sunday evening. One of the rare quiet ones where I don’t have a late shift at the hotel. No dress code. No grumpy guests. Except my plans of making a warm meal, settling in with a good book, and a glass of wine are thwarted by the roommate forgetting to run errands.
“It was your turn to go for groceries, you know,” I say loudly from the couch, not setting down my book since it’s a total page turner.
“Yeah, I might’ve gotten… distracted.” His voice draws closer, and I glance up to find him sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, his glasses askew.
“I, uh, got this though.” He flops down beside me and hands me a bottle of wine.
Both of my eyebrows lift. It’s my favorite.
“Casey! You didn’t have to get me this one. I would’ve been fine with the ones on sale.”
We usually buy this particular bottle for celebrations. Definitely not our usual Sunday-night-in fare.
“Happy second friendaversary, Kallie,” he says, soft enough it catches me off guard.
Wait—what?
We celebrate that now?
And how does he even remember the exact date?
