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Pickles is lying in the doorway, watching me with his chin on his paws.
“Don't look at me like that.”
His tail thumps once.
“I'm fine.”
I check my phone.
7:12.
I put it down, wrap the tape around the blade a few more times, then pick it up again.
7:13.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I toss the phone onto the couch and lean back, rubbing a hand over my face.
I don't even know if they're at dinner yet. Maybe she's still getting ready. Or maybe they're sitting across from each other right now, and he's making her laugh.
I hate that last possibility more than I should.
Because the truth is, I want to be the guy sitting across from her tonight. I want to know whether she's having a good time, what she's ordered, whether she's doing that thing where she tries not to smile when someone makes her laugh.
And I don't have a fucking clue what to do with that.
I've spent the whole week finding excuses to talk to her. The dog, the hoodie, whatever I could come up with. And now she's on a date with someone else, and I'm sitting here checking the time every thirty seconds.
This is getting out of hand.
Worse, I know exactly why it scares me.
The last time I let myself care this much about someone, I lost him.
For a second, I can see the lake again. The ice breaking—
No.
I grab the stick and pull another strip of tape free.
I'm halfway through wrapping the blade for the third time when someone knocks on the door.
Pickles scrambles to his feet and races into the entryway, barking his head off.
“Yeah, yeah. I'm coming.”
I set the stick down and get up to answer it.
Jordan's standing there with a six-pack dangling from two fingers, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“You texted me?” I ask. “I don't remember texting you.”
“You didn't have to.”
He crouches to scratch Pickles behind the ears, and within four seconds, my dog's leaning into him like they've been best friends for years.
Jordan straightens, kicks the door shut behind him, and heads for the couch like he owns the place.
