Page 85 of Falling Offsides

“Hey? Excuse me, bitch?” Delilah grumbles. “Do you know how many true crime scenarios have been going through my head for the last twelve hours?”

“Dee… I’m sorry…”

“You’re sorry? What the fuck, Court? Genuinely, I’m so mad at you. You make all these stalking jokes about Auguste fucking Broussard and then you don’t answer my calls for twelve hours?”

“Technically, you made the stalking jokes,” I retort, waving to the doorman that opens the door for me as I pick Samson up to head outside.

“Courtney Elouise Nilsson, do not make me get on a plane to whoop your ass!”

I’m chuckling at her put-on Southern Belle accent that matches her mom’s when I freeze. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

I’m mute. Stupefied actually.

My chest squeezes so tight that I can’t breathe as I take each step down, cuddling Samson deeper into my chest.

“Courtney, answer me for fuck’s sake!”

“Dee…” I whisper, pausing on the bottom step as my coffee flask and a muffin are held out to me. “I think… I think I’ve really messed up.”

“Shit, what did you do? Are you okay? Is that why you didn’t call me?” A pause and gasp for air. “Girl, you know I’ll bail you out no matter what. Ride or die, sister.”

“I’ve confused everything and now he’s probably thinking that last night meant more than what it did. But it can’t Delilah. Last night can’t mean a thing. Not a thing! I’ve given him the wrong impression and now?—”

“Hold up.” There’s a whole lot of scuffling on her end as I take the coffee and muffin awkwardly from the driver.

This is definitely not an Uber like I thought it would be. Nope. The Range Rover looks like it has all war zone add-ons for super important people, and the chauffeur is in a black suitandhat.

A fucking chauffeur.

“Okay. I’m alcoholating. Talk to me, hoe. Who has the wrong impression from last night?” I can’t reply fast enough as I allow thechauffeurto take my backpack and Samson while I get in the back of the SUV. “It better be stalker boy, because I’m invested in this arc. Thisstory is going places, and I’m not in a mood for a goddamn plot twist at this point in the story.”

“It was a weak moment. That’s all. I was upset and he knocked on my door… hugged me… cooked for me… and I let it cloud my judgement. I let myself get carried away.”

“Can we confirm that we are talking aboutThe Puckinator?” I nod in reply, placing my coffee in the cup holder and allow Samson to leap over it onto my lap. “Courtney! Are we talking about Auguste Broussard?”

“Yes,” I whisper while opening the snack bag with the breakfast muffin.

Delilah breathes a sigh of relief. “Finally.”

“It’s not funny, Dee. It’s bad. He’s a sweet guy and I’ve given him the wrong impression and?—”

“Actually, babe, from the way you’re freaking out, seems like you’ve given stalker boy the right impression.”

“No. It’s mean to lead him on. To let him do all these nice things for me and then…”

“Then?”

“Leave him high and dry. I didn’t come to LA for this. I didn’t—” All the words evade me. I have no clue what I’m trying to say anymore.

Instead, I take a big bite of the fruity muffin Auguste has perfected over the last couple of weeks. Every day, it gets better. A sticky, syrupy layer on top, moist and dense crumbs underneath, and the most yummy fruit that’s just starting to break down into jelly.

“Okay… all right… step away from the ledge.”

“Delilah, he’s my dad’s player.”

“And?”

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