His smile widens and those clear eyes light up. “Finally, someone else who gets it.”
“Love those shows, but I’d probably freak out if I ever saw one up close. I’m a total chicken, then.” Grabbing the top box, I pull out a chocolate ganache macaron and take a bite. “God, these are so good. That bakery is about to make a killing off me if the rest is anywhere near this masterpiece.”
“How deep is your sweet tooth?”
“Never ending,” I manage to say before stuffing the rest in my mouth. “No shame either.”
He raises a brow just as his phone pings with a text. “Yet, you chose savory instead at breakfast?”
“Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are never to be sweet. Those morsels are saved for the after.”
“Noted.” His cell chimes again, and he takes it out of his pocket without looking at it. This one is a smaller device than the one in the car. How many phones does he have? “Three, but this one is for when I don’t answer the one you saw earlier, and no, you didn’t say that out loud. Your facial expressions are very telling.”
“Makes sense.” Not really. “And the third?”
“The third is for family only.” Before I can respond, he looks at the small screen and nods. “Well, this is where I leave you. The boss is calling.”
“Okay.” Why am I so comfortable with him? “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tero heads toward the door, reaching out for the knob but pauses when his hand touches the metal. “Would you like a lift to the gallery tomorrow? I don’t mind if—”
“Yes.” No hesitation from me.
“Good.” He doesn’t say anything else, stepping out into the early afternoon sun while I stay rooted in place. I ignore my home phone ringing from the kitchen and then the answering machine beeping with a message.
Eventually, though, curiosity wins and I head toward the device that came with the house and I’ve been reluctant to throw away. I kept my uncle’s number too and just continued to pay the bill.
Can you please answer me already, Gabby? I’m sorry for being a jerk today, and the dress looked really beautiful on you. Please don’t be mad and call me, your best friend, back who sucks at apologies.
“What are you playing at, Elise?” She made a big deal out of my dress and my behavior and my “ruining” her moment, but everything was set up by her without my input. Without my permission and relates to my business, not hers.
Why be overdramatic?
Why purposely start a fight and hurt me?
Why did I automatically think someone broke into my home when I have no proof?
Those questions keep running through my head, further cementing my need to hole up for the day with junk food and some reality TV. Something light and funny and so far removed from any kind of drama that I can relax—forget.
Mr. Pickles collar tinkles then, his chubby body trotting into the room, eyes searching every corner. He’s not being himself, trembling a bit, and I don’t hesitate to scoop him up in my arms while checking both his water and food dishes.
His breakfast is gone and water a bit low, so I refill both while he snuggles deeper into my neck. That cold little nose makes me giggle, and I give him a few extra scratches on his back for the innocent love he gives without asking for anything in return.
Because that’s what dogs do. They give and are loyal and bring happiness even in moments when you doubt yourself. When you need it the most.
“Thank you, buddy.” Another kiss to his head, and then I say the two words that make him a giddy stinker. “Walk time.”
8
Gabriella
There’s someone sitting on the porch steps, leaning against the railing and looking at her phone when we get back from our walk. She hasn’t seen us yet, and I’m half tempted to turn around and come back later, but Mr. Pickles takes that decision away from me when he growls. The sound is a low rumbling that catches Elise’s attention, and her eyes snap to mine.
She looks at me with a sad expression as she stands, dusting off the back of her ripped-at-the-knee jeans. “Can we talk, please? Things got really out of hand and—”
“We can.”
A breath of relief leaves her. “Thank you. I know you’re—”
I halt her rambling by holding my unoccupied hand up. “Coffee first, and then we’ll talk.”
“Deal.” Not that I’m giving her a choice. I pick up my grumpy pupper and walk past her, opening my front door. Elise hasn’t made an attempt to follow me, and I look back over my shoulder and offer a small smile. “You can come in, chick. No one’s going to bite you.”
At my words, she snorts, yet I do catch the dubious look she gives my dog—a dog that, while not overly friendly with her, has never bared his little teeth or barked. At the most, he avoids, and when left without a choice, lets her pet him with an annoyed look I find adorable.
Mr. Pickles is a bit crotchety, but he’s my crotchety little guy.
We don’t talk while making our way into the kitchen, nor after I let Mr. Pickles go to find something to do. Instead, she watches as I store everything we took away, the last being my cell phone, which I place atop the counter. The silence in the room is heavy, but she came to me and I wasn’t in the mood to make it easy on her.
So I play the ignore game until she’s ready. I busy myself by washing my hands and then pulling down our preferred mugs from my cupboards. Hers is a princess thing in bubble-gum pink that I find atrocious, while mine is black and says The Blood Of My Enemies in bold red.
And while the coffee percolates, I stand with my back against the counter and watch her. Right now, it feels as though I’m seeing her for the first time. I see a side that I do not like, and the grimace on her face tells me she’s aware.
“Why?” I’m the first to break the silence, tired of this roundabout silence that gets us nowhere. My eyes are on hers, daring her to lie. To please help me understand this feeling of betrayal that consumes me.
“Honest truth?” My response is the arch of my brow, which pulls a deep sigh from her. Almost as if she’s being forced to admit her fault, but the thing is, I’m not doing anything here. Elise came to me. “Fine. I was jealous of the attention you were getting, okay?”
I can’t help but snort. “That’s it? That’s the best you can do?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Try again.”
“Gabby, I’m serious.” Her face pinches at this, almost as if she’s smelling something foul. “I’m not trying to be mean, but look at you, and look at me.”
“Not everyone likes blondes, Elise. Ever think of that?” There are other things I can point out: her attitude, unprofessionalism, and the way she practically threw herself at Theodore. He doesn’t like women like that. Like her. My subconscious sneers the words, but I keep my expression neutral, no matter how much all this bothers me—how much my body nearly recoils at the idea of them together. “And even if that’s the excuse you’re choosing to go with, how you treated me—embarrassed me—is unacceptable and quite frankly, a bit sad of you.”