Page 13 of Dating Goals
Heat crawls up my neck.
“I should’ve just brought a fruit basket,” I mumble.
He reaches for a cookie, his fingers brushing mine. My skin tingles at the contact. With exaggerated caution, he takes a dramatic bite, his eyes never leaving mine. “Guess we’ll see if I have to make a run for it.”
I’mabout to make a run for it. Down to the village and away from this man.
The way he’s looking at me makes my stomach do backflips. I watch his face, holding my breath. The Chräbeli are my Oma’s recipe. Crisp, sweet anise cookies shaped like tree branches. I’ve made them a hundred times, but suddenly they seem inadequate. Also, the toilet paper isn’t helping.
“Delicious,” he says around a mouthful of cookie.
I lift my chin, thrusting the plate and toilet paper at him. “Now we’re even.”
“Even?” Griffin’s dimples deepen as he rakes his eyes down my body and back up. “For what, exactly?
“Never mind. And you can stop looking at me like that, mister.”
“Like what?”
I force the items into his hands. “Just take these. I need to go.”
“If you need to go that badly, I have a fish-themed bathroom you can use.”
“I need to go to WORK.”
“Oh? Where do you work? I could walk you down.”
“No thanks.”
I spin on my heel, ready to bolt, but his voice stops me. “You know what Wayne Gretzky says?”
“Who?” I turn back despite myself. I know perfectly well who Wayne Gretzky is.
“The Great One. Hockey legend.” He sets the gifts on a nearby stump. “He says you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“It means maybe you breaking into my bathroom was the universe’s way of making sure we met. And here you are again. It’s fate.”
I snort. “I don’t believe in those sorts of woo-woo things.”
“Another hockey quote then. ‘It’s not whether you get knocked down, it’s whether you get back up.’”
I blink at this strange man and his oddly optimistic way of seeing things. Most people would be annoyed about finding someone using their bathroom without permission. But he seems…amused? Even pleased? He’s treating it like some cosmic matchmaking service.
“Are you always this…” I wave my hand, searching for the right word. “Friendly to people who break into your house?”
His grin widens. “Only the cute ones who serenade me with Blondie songs.”
“No! Don’t remind me of that!”
“One wayyyyy da da da da,” he sings, badly off-key, butchering the words. “I’m gonna gonna gonna gonna.”
“Stop.” I press my lips together to hide a smile. “That’s terrible.”
“I never claimed to be a singer.”
“Shouldn’t you put a shirt on? It’s October.” My voice comes out higher than intended.
