Page 8 of The Dating Pact

“You know how easily I could’ve murdered you?” Brooke stared down at me, smiling. “You didn’t answer your front door, so I came back around here and your gate was unlocked. If I was a murderer, you’d be a goner right now.”

I swiped my palm down my face and blinked the sleep from my eyes, taking in my friend standing over me, wielding…an imaginary weapon aimed at my throat.

“Knife?” I asked.

“Pickax,” she said, and I budged, making room for her to sit next to me.

“Seems a bit gory for you.”

“You know I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.”

I checked out her hands. While she had no dirt on them today, it wasn’t unusual for Brooke to have soil under her fingernails, smudges of it on her skin or clothes. She had come from a corporate background, but no one would guess from how she dressed now. Usually in boots, worn jeans, and some type of plaid or denim shirt. She never wore nail polish or much makeup, at least that I could tell, and usually had her long milk-chocolate hair tied back away from her face.

“Lucky for me, you don’t actually want me dead,” I said, crossing my ankles.

She made herself comfy next to me. “That’s what you think.” When I elbowed her, she laughed. “No. I could never lose you. Who else would smoke with me and watch Emily in Paris?”

I hit her with a serious glower. “I watch it for the fashion.”

She tossed her head back and laughed up at the sky. I’d never met anyone who laughed more than Brooke. I wasn’t even all that funny, but I always made her giggle, and each time she did, it healed my broken heart a little bit more.

“Truly. Was never a more fashion-forward guy than you.”

I tugged on my T-shirt that had a stain—what it was, I didn’t know—right below the collar. “Takes a lot to look like this.”

She nodded, teasing me. “Lots of baking and Wawa.”

I shrugged. “Not everyone can pull it off.”

“That’s for sure.” She patted my stomach, which had become rounder with every passing year, and smiled at me. “I bought you something.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, but she shrugged my words away and put her hands in mine as she stood up, hoisting me with her.

“Got it in the car.”

“Is it The Gobbler?” I asked, my hope in my favorite seasonal Wawa hoagie strong, even though it was the middle of June.

She huffed in amusement. “I wish.”

I pocketed my cell phone, wallet, and keys then locked up before we sauntered to her beat-up pickup. I hopped into the passenger seat as Brooke twisted around to grab something from the back.

It was a birthday cake.

But not any cake.

It was a cake with David Beckham’s face on it, and I lost it. I bent over, heaving with laughter, holding my stomach as my eyes watered. Next to me, Brooke cackled, obviously proud of herself.

“I had to do it.”

“Oh my god,” I finally got out, “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you.”

“I know how much you missed it.”

For my tenth birthday party, my parents had rented out a park with a soccer field because, at the time, I’d been obsessed with soccer. Posters of David Beckham had covered my walls, and they’d bought me a cake with his face on it, little plastic soccer balls decorating the sides. Unfortunately for me, I’d ended up coming down with some kind of stomach bug and puked in a trash can before I even had one bite of that cake. I’d relayed that core memory to Brooke a few months ago, and having this cake in front of me now was truly one of the best gifts I could’ve received.

Normally, we made a pit stop for snacks, but today, Brooke drove us right to our spot, her farm.

Pennsylvania had a good amount of farmland, but a lot of it was owned by corporations or non-farmers, who leased out the property. Brooke had been lucky enough to score herself a small plot of land on the outskirts of West Chester, buying it outright. Big enough to support her burgeoning farming endeavor, it boasted a small garage and a tiny old farmhouse she used as an office and distribution center for her co-op. Perfect for her needs. And ours.