“We don’t. Not really.” He pauses. “I guess you could say we’ve… crossed paths, in the past.”
“Oh.”That wasn’t supremely vague, or anything.
“I wasn’t aware you knew him.”
My lips twist. “I don’t.”
Not anymore.
“You’re not close? He acted… territorial.”
“I’d sooner hug a cactus than get close to Nathaniel Knox.”
“Great.” His voice is audibly relieved. “Then there’s no reason you can’t come out with me, tonight.”
Damn, he’s persistent.
“I actually have a lot of work to get through—”
“Lila gave me your address. I’ll be there at seven.” I can hear that dimpled grin in his voice. “And I won’t take no for an answer.”
“But—”
“See you in forty minutes, Phoebe.”
What?!
“Did you sayforty—”
He’s already clicked off.
Crap on sourdough!
I jump out of my chair and sprint for the stairs, screeching in horror when I catch sight of my hair in the mirror across from my desk. Short of a miracle, there’s no way I’ll be buffed, polished, and ready for a date in forty — shit, make that thirty-nine — minutes.
Rushing through the archway, I cut through the kitchen so fast I almost miss the piece of paper taped to my refrigerator. Boo lifts his head from the plush doggie-bed where he’s been snoozing when I slam to a stop, heart pounding in my chest.
My eyes move from the note to the countertop, where my house keys rest. My stomach clenches at the sight. I was in such a rush to get to yoga this morning, I didn’t have a chance to search through the bushes to find them. And yet, there they sit.
Eyes narrowed on the note, I walk numbly to the fridge and lean close to read the blocky, masculine words scrawled on the paper.
Now you won’t starve to death. Stay put until we talk.
He didn’t bother signing it.
I reach out blindly and tug open the refrigerator doors. My heart starts to slam against my ribs when I see groceries on every shelf — more food than I think I’ve ever had at once. Fruits and vegetables and pre-made raviolis and a French bread and a big wedge of expensive cheese and my favorite kind of seltzer. Cranberry lime.
I don’t have the mental capacity to wonder how he evenknewit was my favorite, because my eyes are fixed on the bottom shelf, where a six pack of beer with a brand name I’ve never heard of sits unobtrusively.
Lagunitas India Pale Ale.
A man’s beer. Definitely.
Nate’sbeer.
I stare at it for a long moment, wondering what it means that he left his beer here. Wonderingwhyhe bothered to do all this for me. And most importantly, whether he saw me sleeping in a puddle of my own drool with crazy, electrocuted hair and my holey yoga pants when he snuck in and stocked my fridge with groceries.
Fine, maybesnuckisn’t the right verb. I was pretty much dead to the world — nothing short of an earthquake would’ve woken me. For all I know, he loaded in the groceries while blasting death metal so loud it shook the floors. My dreams of Henry Cavill would’ve continued undisturbed.