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R
Felicity wrinkled her brow. “Yours? What does that mean?” she muttered, filling the dogs’ bowls with kibble.
With a sigh, she sat, folded her arms, and leaned back in the kitchen chair, her gaze shifting between the cake and the note, its edges rough where it had been torn from a small spiral notebook. “He’s not mine. He will never be mine.”
She stared at the cake for a long moment. “Ruth baked it. It’s probably dry and tasteless,” she told the pugs. They paid her no heed, busy filling their own stomachs, reminding her that the last meal she ate was with them. Hours ago.
Putting together dinner held no appeal.
She sighed, grabbed a fork, and carved off a small bite.
The cake was moist and rich with vanilla. The buttercream melted on her tongue. Her stomach growled for more. “Traitor,” she grumbled, and took another bite.
It was damn good cake. And she was hungry.
What the hell.
She picked up the fork again and finished the cake.
25
Unwelcome gifts
The plastic container lay on the passenger seat for three days before she finally plucked up the courage to return it. Inside, she’d bubble-wrapped the key he’d given her ages ago. It was time it went back to its owner. Where it belonged. This friendship thing was not working for her. She stopped on his street, not even bothering to pull into the driveway.
It was early, the sky slowly shifting from midnight blue to cold steel-blue, edged with the first hint of light, the frosty air biting into her skin.
He opened the door before she could knock twice.
Shirtless.
“Seriously?”
Droplets of water playing hide-and-seek with the mat of dark hair across his chest. A towel was hitched low on his hips, ending mid-thigh.
Eyes up, Felicity.
Gah. There was that cocky grin again.
“Good morning, Felicity.” His arm lifted, bracing casually against the doorframe.
“Here.” She thrust the container at him. “For future reference — I don’t like cake.”
Ronan didn’t take it.
His gaze slipped over her body, then lifted back to her face. Slow, deliberate. “You’re looking beautiful today.”
Her jaw tightened. She pushed the container closer. “Take it, Ronan.”
He did, his fingers brushing hers. She snatched her hand back and turned away.
“We need to talk.”
She stilled.
“About what?” she asked, staring at the silvery frosting on the browned lawn.
“You know what.”
