Page 32 of Dating Goals
“It’s fine,” I mutter. I fumble for my car keys, needing to escape this mortifying situation as quickly as possible.
She’s stammering now, her composure completely shattered. “It wasn’t you, it was me. I might still be in fight mode.”
“Seriously, don’t worry about it. I misread the situation. Totally my fault.”
My face throbs where her fist connected—the same side that lunatic Titans fan got me, because of course it is, but my pride hurts way more than my jaw at this point. I finally get the door open and practically fall into the driver’s seat.
“Thanks for the, uh, first aid earlier. And the self-defense demonstration. Twice in one night. Lucky me.”
I close the door and turn on the engine. Through the window, I see her still standing there, looking stricken.
“You should ice that cut when you get home,” she says, almost pressed against the window. “Twenty minutes on, twenty off.”
“I know the drill,” I reply.
“Of course you do, Hockey player.”
“Goodnight, Anika.”
So much for chemistry. So much for reading the signs. Whatever I thought was happening between us, I was clearly wrong.
Finally, she takes a small step back. “Goodnight, Griffin. Try not to get punched again.”
I smile as well as I can after getting punched thrice in one night. “No promises.”
8
ANIKA
The village market is tiny but packed today. Elderly Frau Weber inspects tomatoes with her magnifying glass while Frau Mueller gossips about someone’s wayward grandson.
This market is my happy place. A charming labyrinth of locally sourced everything, with strings of fairy lights crisscrossing the timber beam ceiling year-round. There’s Herr Baumgartner’s artisanal cheese stall with the samples I absolutely do not take more than my fair share of (okay, maybe I do), Frau Abold’s spice corner that makes my nose tingle in the best way possible, and the produce section, which is where I’m currently deliberating between two identical-looking bunches of kale.
“They’re exactly the same, dear,” I mutter to myself, turning both bunches over. “Just pick one and move on with your life, Anika.”
My basket is already groaning with bread, strawberry jam, and a wedge of brie that cost more than I can afford. I need to focus on practical items like vegetables an actual adult would buy. Not the chocolate-covered pretzels I’ve been eyeing since I walked in.
And then I see him.
Griffin is standing across the produce section, looking unfairly gorgeous in a navy beanie, his brown hair peeking out from underneath.
Our eyes lock over a display of organic bell peppers, and I briefly consider diving behind the potato bin. But it’s too late. We’ve done that awkward recognition thing where we both wave at precisely the same moment. His confident, and mine more like I’m having a small seizure.
Oh no, he’s coming over. He’s actually walking toward me.
“Entschuldigung,” I mutter to Frau Weber as I bump into her cart. She clicks her tongue, adjusting her thick wool scarf while giving me the side-eye.
Griffin arrives at my side, looking like he’s stepped out of a winter fashion catalog while I’m wearing my laundry day leggings and a sweater with a suspicious stain that might be last night’s chocolate binge.
“Hi,” we both say simultaneously.
“Sorry—” we both start again.
“You—” we try once more.
Frau Weber and Frau Mueller pause their produce inspection to watch us with undisguised interest.
Griffin glances at our elderly audience and leans closer to me. “Maybe we should talk somewhere else? Unless you’re really committed to this kale decision.”
