Page 72 of The Serendipity

“I never went to a birthday party,” Archer says. “At least, not one intended for children.”

I keep my focus on the mixer because I’m not sure I can look at Archer in the face without crying. Or doing something even stupider like crossing the room to throw my arms around him in a hug he probably doesn’t want. Even if it’s what he mightneed.

“Even my own weren’t for me,” he continues. “They were an excuse for my dad to expand his social circles and display his wealth. I was the only child in attendance.”

I may not know Archer well, but I am absolutely certain he wouldn’t want even a trace of anything resembling pity. This makes it hard for me to respond. The urge to hug him now reaches a level so intense that my entire body feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.

This is the only explanation for why I turn on the stand mixer before adding water or putting on the protective plastic cover, which I rarely use because it annoys me trying to wrestle it on top of the mixer. A cloud of vanilla and almond scented powdered sugar envelops me, and I immediately turn off the mixer and step back and sneeze violently six times in a row.

A lot of people talk or joke about peaking in high school. I think I just did the opposite—I bottomed out at twenty-six years old at one thirty-seven a.m. in The Serendipity’s kitchen.

I move to the sink and toss cold water on my face, wiping away the powdered sugar and discreetly scrubbing at my nose. Just in case the sneezing knocked anything loose. My mother hates the word booger more than any curse word in existence, so I grew up forced to use the word motto, a term Mom and her childhood best friend made up. The only way I can sink lower is if Archer sees me with a motto hanging out of my nose.

Sufficiently assured my face is as fine as it’s going to get given the current set of circumstances, I turn and catch Archer smiling.

No—it’s not a smile. It is a full-ongrin.

The sight throws me. Not just because this version of Archer is almost as attractive as the frowning boss one. But because he looks almostboyish.

This, I think,is how young Archer would have smiled at a birthday party where kids did The Hokey Pokey.

“You should come with me tomorrow,” I blurt.

His smile disappears, but I think it’s more because I’m looking directly at him and not because of my words. “Come with you where?”

“To the party. I have to drop these off tomorrow. I can’t promise there will be The Hokey Pokey, but…” I don’t know how to end this sentence. “There might be juice boxes?”

Archer swallows, a movement I normally wouldn’t notice, except right now I feel like I’m hyper aware of every single detail about him. It must be the lack of sleep. I rub my eyes.

“You want me to come to a child’s birthday party tomorrow.” He’s repeating, not asking a question. “With you.”

I’ll choose not to be offended by the last part. One thing I’ve learned after spending time with Archer is that there is rarely subtext with him. He is blunt and simple, which at times makes him harder to understand. He usually doesn’t mean the kinds of loaded things other people would when they say something likewith you. But he’ll also say unguarded, too honest things most people would hold back.

With a teasing smile, I say, “Think about it. You can cross it off your bucket list and never again have to say you haven’t been to a real backyard birthday party.” I dramatically roll my eyes. “I mean, embarrassing.”

My risky choice pays off. Archer’s eyes are on me again. “Fine. But there had better be juice boxes.” He pauses. “What is a juice box?”

I laugh. “You’ll see. And if they don’t have them, I’ll take you out after to get one.”

“Deal.”

I swear, he looked like he wanted to say,It’s a date. Or maybe I wanted him to say that? Do I want to go on a date with Archer Gaines?

Does he want to go on one with me?

“Now I need you to do something for me,” I tell him.

“What do you want, Willa the Person?” he asks, and I’m tempted to ask for something ridiculous like a yacht or a rare diamond. Just to see his response.

Instead, I say, “Just talk to me. Tell me more about these non-child birthday parties or what you were like in college—oh my gosh, did you ever order pizza after midnight like a normal person? Or tell me about your dating history—since now you know some of mine. I’d be fascinated to know about the kinds of women you’ve dated.”

I didn’t mean to ask the last one. Even if it makes my cheeks flush.

“Strike that last question from the record please. Sorry.”

“I’m not sorry,” Archer counters. “I’ll tell you my dating history if you tell me yours.”

“Um. Okay.”

---