Page 38 of My Grumpy Sweetheart
Yes.
Yes, I wanted to see him again, wanted to see his eyes light up with mischief again, wanted him to elbow me because I’d made a sarcastic comment. I wanted his light, his laughter. I wanted his kisses, wanted him to snark at me right until he melted into my touch.
“I think I know the answer to that question,” Liam quipped.
I glared at him.
“Hey, now. We’re your friends. We’re here to help you,” he said, raising his eyebrows at me. “That means, if you forgive us for the stunt we pulled.”
Murphy laughed. “He doesn’t get to sulk any longer. After all, he went ahead and fell in love with his date — the date he wouldn’t have had if it weren’t for us. Besides, us paying a thousand dollars per person is a pretty harsh punishment in and of itself.”
Shaking my head, I snorted a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. You’re forgiven — as long as you promise to never, ever, ever do something like that again. It’s really not cool.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “Dude, if I have to pay a thousand dollars every time, I don’t think my bank account would agree to do this more often. It’d get really expensive really fast. Besides… if you manage to make things right with your loverboy, it’d be kind shitty to send you on a date with someone else.”
IfI managed to make things right with Bailey; it being a big if.
A thought crossed my mind, a spark of an idea taking root.
“Hey… uhm… do any of you happen to have a good recipe for apple butter?”
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
BAILEY
Neither my yoga class nor the yoga videos I’d tried following along this weekend had helped me to feel any more zen and calm about the whole Dakota thing. It fucking sucked — especially since I was still seeing his stupid face whenever I saw an apple.
It was fall. We were in Connecticut… there were apples everywhere. And the city I worked in? Was called the Big Apple, so thank you very much, you fucking asshole, for making it impossible to forget about you!
The fact that I still had an entire bucket of unused apples sitting on my countertop didn’t help, either. I’d tried giving them away, but my parents had already taken some off my hands, and I couldn’t very well bring a whole bucket to the office. Well, in theory, I could, but did I really want to ride the train with a heavy bucket in my hands? Not really.
So the stupid fruit sitting on my countertop kept reminding me that yet another person thought I was too much. Or whatever his problem was — I didn’t even fucking know. It was maddening. I’d thought everything was fine. Our chemistry… I shuddered. Yeah, it’d been off the charts. And he’d smiled — just for me. And damn, if that smile didn’t transform his whole face. The knowledge that this bright smile, the light in his eyes was just for me was exhilarating. Only… it probably hadn’t even been for me in the first place.
Stupid Dakota.
Stupid apples.
Angrily, I kicked my shoe away, which really wasn’t the smart thing to do considering I had to put it on. Which meant running after it and retrieving it from under the couch because the weekend was already over and I needed to go to work. Where I’d have to fake being happy so my colleagues didn’t rip Joaquín’s head off so he didn’t, in turn, rip my head off.
Yay.
Shaking my head, I grabbed my messenger bag and walked toward my front door, stopping in front of the mirror in the hall. At least I didn’t look as bad as I did on Friday. Concealer really was a miracle worker.
* * *
The day dragged. Usually, I loved my work. I loved brainstorming with my colleagues, loved coming up with new ideas, loved creating graphics and content. Hell, I even loved the meetings with the other teams and departments. But today it seemed like one annoying and unnecessary question after the other. Especially since the answers were all in our presentation.
Closing my eyes, I thanked every god there was that it was finally over.
At least Joaquín hadn’t said anything about my team trying to murder him, so maybe I’d managed to fake my happiness well enough for people to believe me.
Unfortunately, the faking happiness to feel better and actually be happy thing hadn’t worked for me today.
Maybe tomorrow. Or on Wednesday. Or next week.
At one point, the apples would be gone and my recollection of my weekend at the orchard would fade into a distant memory. Maybe I’d even manage to see it as a fun experience in a year or ten.
“Bailey?” The front desk manager, Julia, waved at me.
