Page 87 of What If I Hate You
Her eyes flick up to mine, wide and searching, like she’s trying to figure out what game I’m playing.
I’m not. Not this time.
“You make it feel like home,” I admit. “I’ve lived in places with better furniture, newer kitchens. But this? Walking around a store like this with you? It’s the first time it doesn’t feel temporary.”
Blakely blinks. Then she smiles soft and slow and a little shy, which is rare for her.
And yeah. I think I’d buy a hundred overpriced pillows if it means I get to see that smile again. “What else do we need?”
Without a second thought she answers, “How about a couple throw blankets. Good for snuggling.”
“Perfect,” I tell her. “Lead the way.”
Together we pick out two very fuzzy and very soft blankets that I’m certain Killer will claim as his own the minute he steps on them. But what’s mine is his anyway, so I don’t mind. “Okay, I think that’s it,” Blakely says, swiping her hands together in a job well done gesture. “You’ve got some great stuff in here to give your place a little freshening up.”
I glance down into the cart and smile to myself. “One more thing. Well, maybe two or three more before we check out.”
Her brows arch and her pretty mouth forms a perfect little O shape. “Oh? What did I forget?”
With a slow smirk, I gesture my head toward the bedding aisle. “Let’s grab three more sheet sets and a waterproof mattress protector.”
She laughs and goes to slap my arm but I stop her with my hand around her wrist and pull her against me. “Because if I have my way, last night will not have been the only time my bed gets wet.”
It’s not freezingby any means, but even California in the wintertime can get chilly and today is no exception. Blakely’s bundled up in my hoodie, one hand shoved deep into the pocket as we walk down the block, her other enveloped in my warm grasp. She doesn’t ask where we’re going, just follows my lead like she’s starting to trust me with more than just apologies and pizza.
Which is… new. And heavier than I thought it’d be.
St. Luke’s comes into view. An old red brick church building with a faded sign and a line already curling around the corner even though the doors won’t open for another twenty minutes. I glance down at her and watch how she scans the street trying to figure out what we’re doing here.
“You ever been here?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Nope. What is this…?”
“A soup kitchen,” I say.
Her head tilts and her curious eyes find mine. “A soup kitchen?”
“Mhmm. I help out when I can. I try to make it here weekly if not every other. It gets tricky during the season but I try to stay regular during the summer months.”
Her brows lift. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I push open the side door and squeeze her hand before we go in. “But Blake?”
“Yeah?” Her gorgeous round eyes stare back at me.
“This is another one of those off the record things. Can you do that? For me?”
She pulls her hand from her hoodie pocket and presses it against my chest. “Barrett Cunningham, you might not believethis about me, but I’m pretty damn sure I’d do just about anything for you,” she says. “If you say it’s off the record, it’s off the record. I’m not a reporter today. I’m just your girl, standing by your side and hanging out with you because I enjoy your company.”
“My girl,” I repeat. “I didn’t think there would ever be a day where I would have someone to call my girl, but it feels really fucking good.”
“Well, you better get used to it big guy,” she says, smiling at me. “Because I’m not planning on going anywhere.”
“Good.” I lean down and kiss her lips, soft, slow, meaningful. “That makes me happy. And this makes me happy so I wanted to share it with you. Come on.”
Inside, the place smells like coffee and stew. Old wood floors creak under our feet, and volunteers are already setting out trays and sorting cans behind the counter. Carla, who runs the kitchen with a fierce heart and zero tolerance for laziness, spots me and waves me over like I’m late.
“Cunningham,” she barks. “Took you long enough. Go grab an apron.”
