Page 134 of Endgame

I watch too much true crime for this.

I know I’m one of the only ones left at Makers Park, given everyone headed out directly following the home game.

Then who was at my door?

I consider my options, mulling over all the ways I could keep my job and fight back enough to stay alive. I move to stand, but not before grabbing the bat Callaway hid under my desk for extreme circumstances; I would say this is an extreme circumstance.

I keep the bat in a defensive position, waiting for my imminent attacker to strike.

He’s messing with the wrong woman.

If I can handle the size of Callaway’s dick, then surely, I can handle the threat of a potential murderer.

My attempt to remain calm is useless as I borderlinewheeze my way to the door; so much for keeping quiet. I’m not built for this.

Where’s a man when you need one?

I do my best to steal a peek from the large glass window, hoping to catch the potential lawbreaker in the act. He’s nowhere to be found. I guess I have no choice but to show this coward who’s boss. I reach forward to turn the knob slowly.

You can do this, Dakota.

Callaway knows you love him. Worst case, he mourns your death for a while, then finds another Barbie cleat chaser to tickle his fancy.

Anger fills me.Bump that.

I pull the door open in one swift motion, bat in hand, ready to stand my ground against a hall full of… emptiness.

Absolutely nothing. The halls are deserted.

I don’t know why I thought an ax murderer would stay to be caught. Monitoring my surroundings, the only thing I find is propped directly at my feet and the best gift I’ve ever received.

A cookie bouquet.

Concluding that I am no longer at risk, I put the bat down and reach for the label, finding it addressed to me.

Angel,

Because I know you won’t sleep until everything is perfect.

Love, C.

He bought me a cookie bouquet—notflowers, but every one of my favorite cookies, organized into the most beautifularrangement. Milanos, Oreos, chocolate chip, sprinkled sugar, double dark chocolate, a tub of cookie butter, and even the iced sprinkled animal cookies he knows I love so much.

His small acts describe more aboutwhohe is than what he can give. I couldn’t imagine a more thoughtful gift if I tried.

The man outside my door is now off the hook, clearly the one appointed for delivery and not an ax murderer out for my life.

My relief is there.

I lift the bouquet in my arms and walk to place it carefully on my office desk. My thoughts roam to how I’m incredibly surprised and glad to have someone who knows what matters most to me, for example, cookies.

The growl in my stomach reminds me I’m starving.

I somehow skipped out on lunch, the idea of nachos from the stands doing nothing to satiate my hunger the way baked goods do.

I scan the assortment, zeroing in on the cookie butter.

Delish.

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