Page 36 of Accidentally Amy

Blake:So I repeat my original Um…?

Izzy:I’m preparing some notes on how we can be friends without jeopardizing our careers. Would you be interested in meeting at Scooter’s tomorrow morning to review?

Blake:8am?

Izzy:Perfect. Our Scooter’s?

I set my phone down again.OurScooter’s.

At that moment, I saw her through the front window. She was bent down, locking up a bike that looked to be a child’s bike, wearing a black pullover and black leggings with a messenger bag slung across her body.

When she straightened and took off her helmet, the sight of her face made me feel something in my gut.

Holy shit, were those fucking butterflies? They were. They were fucking butterflies.

God help me, I was now the equivalent of a hormonal adolescent.

Izzy

I could barely walk as I entered Scooter’s, my legs like jelly. Since my car was currently at a county impound lot because the city towed it before I’d had a chance to remember its roadside existence, I was currently carless.

I’d foolishly thought,No big deal, I’ll borrow Daphne’s bike.I ran five miles every morning, so in theory, leisurely riding a bike to Scooter’s would be easier.

Right?

Wrong.

I wasn’t sure whether it was the bike, the hills, or my pathetic thighs, but I almost gave up three times during my wayward journey. It was only Blake’s villainous eyes and hilarious texting that forced me to power through the wicked leg shakes.

I was excited to see him again.

I ran a hand over my ponytail and ordered a latte, refusing to search for him until I had my drink. I needed to focus on my goal and not be distracted by his ridiculous good looks.

Side note: Blake had been in my dream last night,wearing long, flowing robes and a dangerous vibe that made me wake up empathizing with Bella Swan’s vampirious propensities.

That wasn’t concerningat all, the way he was infiltrating my brain even while I was sleeping.

And my goal that morning, for real, was so lame.

Sad, really.

Because my goal, in a nutshell, was to convince him to be my friend.

That was it:Please be my friend.

I was like first-grade Isabella all over again. Some things never changed.

“Izzy?” the barista yelled, reading the label.

“Thank you.” I grabbed my drink and immediately saw Blake, sitting at a table in the back.

He was wearing a black hoodie, which should’ve made him look casual, but something about him just screamed IMPORTANT. The watch, the clean haircut, the big hands—well, okay, the big hands didn’t make him important, per se, but my eyes sure enjoyed them; the whole package just shouted SUCCESSFUL.

“Good morning.” Blake smiled up at me in a way that made me smile back, and I was glad he wasn’t one of those guys who stood up when a woman approached. I knew it came from a traditional, respectful place, but it always made me feel awkward and like I was a little less of an adult than the man rising to his feet.

“I am so sorry I’m late.” I pulled off my bag, set it on one of the extra chairs at the table, and sat down. “As it turns out, I’m a terrible cyclist.”

“I could’ve picked you up,” he said, his dark eyes warm as he wrapped a hand around his cup.

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