Page 42 of Drop Shot
I raisemy hand to knock but hesitate. She could already be asleep, or she could not want me here after I sent her home.
But I’m already outside her door and I brought dinner, so I need to stop being a wuss.
The knock is loud, and I cringe. She has a migraine. On the other side I hear a meow from Craig and some shuffling.
A moment later Whimsy opens the door and stares at me in shock.
“What are you doing here?” She takes me in, from my sneakers to my shorts to my black t-shirt.
“I brought dinner.” I hold out the takeout bag. “I looked up meals that are supposed to be good when you have lupus. Anti-inflammatory. It’s salmon and veggies and there’s a roll too which I know isn’t exactly anti-inflammatory but I figured better safe than sorry since I know you love bread.”
The last thing I expect is for Whimsy to burst into tears, but she does just that.
“You researched what food is best to eat for lupus?”
I look around half-expecting someone with a camera to pop out and tell me I’ve been Punk’d but that doesn’t happen. “Yes?” It comes out as a question. It seems like the most logical thing to do. I know food plays a role in autoimmune disorders; therefore it made sense to me to choose something that wouldn’t make her flare more intense.
“That’s … so sweet. Thank you.” She steps aside to let me in.
I try to ignore the fact that she’s wearing a tiny pair of blue and white striped shorts and a matching blue camisole. A garment I only know the name of because of my sister.
I’ve barely crossed the threshold when Craig starts weaving between my legs.
I set the bag of food down before I scoop the cat up. “I missed you, too, Craig.” I nuzzle her neck.
Whimsy laughs and peeks into the bag of food, pulling out the two orders. She arches an amused brow. “You assumed I’d let you stay for dinner?”
I shrug, unaffected by her teasing tone. “I hoped.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “You’re feeling better? I was worried you might be in bed.”
“I had the driver grab me a frozen coffee on the way home. Don’t ask me why, but it helps.”
“Good.”
I set Craig down and take the to-go boxes from her and plate our meals up to pop in the microwave. She watches me with an amused curve of her lips.
“What?” I ask innocently.
“You sure make yourself at home in my apartment.”
I shrug. “Would you like me to ask permission?”
She shakes her head. “It’s just cute is all.”
“Cute?” I arch a brow in surprise.
“Yeah, I just … never expected you to be this way, I guess. I’ve only really known you as my boss. Not this domestic version of you”
“Domestic,” I snort.
“You know what I mean.” She pokes my stomach. The microwave buzzes so I switch out the plates. “Aren’t you tired?” she asks suddenly, voice softer than before. “You shouldn’t have worried about me. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can.” She’s been doing it for years unbeknownst to me. “But I can help, so let me. As for home…” I hum. “I’d rather be here.”
Over the past few weeks, I’ve found that I much prefer to be here.
“Why?” she asks, nose wrinkling in confusion.
“It’s not as lonely,” I admit. “And I don’t think I realized before Jackson forced us into this just how alone I really was.” My brows knit as I think about my time on the road. The hookups and the interviews and the parties and how I ate it all up—or so I thought.
