Page 55

"I'll drive," Scout adds.

"No, actually," I say, shifting my weight, "Sumner’s coming with me."

Just saying it out loud makes a ridiculous swarm of butterflies kick up in my stomach knowing I’m going to see him again in a couple of days. I try to mentally squash the fluttery feeling, but it's totally useless. Who am I kidding? I'm already counting down the hours.

Nobody says a word. All four of them just look at me.

Andie raises her eyebrows, seeing right through my bullshit. "Oh, you are so screwed. He is absolutely going to win you over."

"Shut up," I mutter, turning toward the door as my face heats up. "I'm going to work."

"Mocktails and tacos later!" Scout calls after me, laughing.

I give them a wave over my shoulder, and Ellie and I head back to the studio.

The rest of the day is a blur of adjusting ring lights, hyping up my clients, and staying on my feet until my lower back aches. By the time six o'clock rolls around, that early pregnancy fatigue I read about online hits me hard. I have to text the group chat and rain-check the tacos, promising them I'll make it up to them later this week.

When I finally walk through my front door at seven, I’m completely tapped out. I swear even my bones hurt, and every time I blink, it gets harder and harder to open my eyes back up.

I drop my keys into the bowl on the entryway table and kick my platform sandals down the hallway. I’ll pick them up later. My work clothes are too tight, and all I want is to strip down to my underwear and a baggy t-shirt and finish that block of cheese in bed.

And that’s what I’m gonna do… until a knock sounds at the front door.

I groan, letting my head fall back for a second. I need to get this bra off. But no, some asshole wanting to ask me if I’ve heard of our lord and savior has to show up now. I swear they time it to be the most annoying they possibly can be.

Turning around, I pull the door open, fully expecting to have to bust out my best okay, but have you heard of MY lord and savior, Satan? But it’s not missionaries.

It’s Sumner.

He’s standing on my porch in a pair of dark jeans and a fitted white t-shirt that hugs his broad chest and makes his arms look thick and strong. He’s holding a brown paper takeout bag and a small insulated cooler bag.

Forget the cheese. My mouth practically waters just looking at him.

I stare at him, my heart doing a stupid, frantic little flutter. "What are you doing here? And how do you even know where I live?"

“You own the house, Goldie. It took me about two minutes to find your address in the property records.”

A tiny, rational part of my brain knows I should probably be a little creeped out that he tracked down my address. But staring at his broad shoulders and the steady, unwavering look in his eyes, I don't feel creeped out at all. I just feel a rush of warmth that he actually wanted to see me enough to go to the effort.

He holds the takeout bag out to me. The second I grab it, whatever’s inside smells so fucking good my stomach growls.

"You left yesterday before we could get food," he says, his voice dropping into that low, gritty rumble that goes straight down my spine and makes goosebumps rush over my skin. "And since you gave me so much shit for the donut thing, I brought my favorite dessert instead. It's in the cooler."

"Okay," I say, blinking down at the bags.

"Can I come in?"

I step back, my brain totally glitching out. I let him walk right past me into the living room. The scent of him immediately fills up the space as he passes by, and I inhale but try to hide that I’m doing it.

What? He smells amazing.

I open the takeout bag, inhaling the smell of fish and fries, but my curiosity gets the better of me. I unzip the small cooler bag and pull out a sleek, unmarked pint container. Popping the lid off, I grab a spoon from a drawer and take a bite.

"Holy shit," I groan around the bite of blackberry-vanilla ice cream. It is rich, creamy, and insanely good. "Where did you buy this?"

Sumner leans against the counter, a slow, satisfied smirk curving his lips. "I didn't buy it. I made it."

I stare at him, the spoon halfway to my mouth. "You make your own ice cream?"