Page 29 of Win My Heart

ChapterEight

BERNIE

I let outa groan when the Dot shrills through my apartment that I need to water Frank, my fern. If I didn’t set a reoccurring reminder to water the poor plant, then I would forget and he would die. I like Frank, so I don’t want him to die. But I also don’t naturally have a green thumb.

Frank and I make it work, though.

The Dot, on the other hand, is freaking rude for yelling the reminder at me at volume ten, when my head is still pounding from the night before.

I roll off the couch and walk into the kitchen to fill up a cup to feed Frank with. I already downed some ibuprofen when I forced myself out of the hotel bed this morning around ten. I spent some time in the bathroom thinking I was going to have to pray to the porcelain god, but fortunately, I didn’t have to. I’ve been vegging on the couch since I came home. For the past hour, I’ve contemplated ingesting something other than the Gatorade I’ve been nursing, but my stomach is weak.

I return to my big comfy couch and flip to the home screen of Netflix and do some scrolling before I find the show I’m looking for. I’m not much for historical pieces, but I’m up for sexy dukes and viscounts all day long.Bridgertonis my jam, and the new season just came out, but I’m doing a rewatch of the first season as a refresher. I get about twenty minutes into the episode when my phone dings. Picking up my phone, I see it’s an email.

I don’t recognize the sender, but it didn’t get flagged by spam, so I open it and read it.

Hey! Getting to know you has been so much fun. I know we haven’t met in real life yet, but I’d love to rectify that. Let’s figure out a time to meet—the sooner the better. I’ve been waiting so long. -Joe

A chill runs down my back as I read the words. A rock settles in the bottom of my gut. Something is wrong here. This Joe guy doesn’t use my name, so maybe he’s not sending it to me, and there’s nothing about his message that gives me any clue that I know him. I haven’t made any new friends online recently.

Then I remember the Instagram message from the other day. Opening up Insta, I look back at the message. There’s no mention of the name “Joe,” so maybe they aren’t connected.

Either way, consider me creeped out.

I lie here, staring aimlessly at the TV, when I realize that I haven’t been paying attention. I need to do something to get my mind settled so I can go back to being productive.

Maybe I should eat. I could eat a cookie, but I ate the last Chip Ahoy the other day, and I need to consider grocery shopping. But again—not adulting today.

I couldmakecookies.

I’m sure I have oats, chocolate chips, butter, eggs, and sugar.

I don’t bake often, but I have this killer cookie recipe. I’d say it’s my go-to recipe, but really, it’s my only recipe. With a renewed scene of purpose, I pause the show and push off the couch. I have all the ingredients I need, surprisingly, and start mixing. Then I’m scooping, and just as I push my single cookie pan into the oven, there’s a knock at my door.

Hmm.Surely it’s not the girls. We’ve texted briefly this morning, and we’re all nursing hangovers.

I open the door and find Wade standing on the other side.

“Oh, hey.” I can’t hide my surprise.

He’s wearing a pair of dark blue sweats and a heather gray T-shirt that fits him like a glove. I don’t normally see him so dressed down, but dang is he yummy. His smile is shy, and mixed with his relaxed outfit and slightly messed up hair, I have to resist the urge to sigh longingly.

His hand goes up to the back of his neck. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” I pull the door open wider and shift out of his way to come in. As he walks toward me, his eyes drop down my body, and my mind races trying to remember what I’m wearing.

I causally glance down as I close the door behind him. I’m wearing cotton sleep shorts that aren’t super old or short and a heather-blue shirt with the Superman logo on it. My hair is up in a messy bun. It’s clear I just rolled out of bed with the mother of all hangovers, but at least I don’t look homeless or like a sex kitten.

“So, uh… what’s up?” I ask, turning to him as he takes in my space.

“I’ve never been here before,” he says.

I walk toward him, looking around and trying to see what my place looks like through his eyes. It’s not messy, thank god.

“Oh yeah. It’s kinda small, but it’s cozy. It’s home.” My safe space. Being on the best pro gaming team in the world for the past couple of years has had its payoffs. One being that I’ve been able to furnish my entire apartment myself, all new, and exactly the way I want it.

“It suits you. I bet it’s nice having a place all to yourself.” His tone is soft.

Laughing, I catch what he’s saying. “Are you missing having your own place already?”

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