I follow her gaze, and as a familiar wrought iron fence comes into view, my stomach plummets. “Wait. Mimi…”
“Don’t be mad.” She pulls her car through the already open gates without bothering to look at me.
“Don’t be mad?” I hiss. “Of course I’m mad. Why are we at Alaric’s house?”
With jerky movements, I unbuckle my seat belt. It’s stupid, really. What am I going to do? Tuck and roll out of the car and reacquaint myself with this familiar stamped driveway?
“Okay, fine. You can be mad. But only after you see it.”
“See what?”
She circles the driveway and parks near the garage. Then, ignoring me, she unbuckles and climbs out of the car.
With a groan, I haul myself out, too.
As I close the passenger door, a bay door slowly rolls open.
A riot of butterflies beat their wings against my insides, the sensation simultaneously overwhelming and distantly dreamy.
I take a step forward, hoping.
I clench my fists together, wishing.
Please let this be real. Please don’t let my hopes be too high.
Once the garage door is fully open and the motor has quieted, Alaric appears.
Instantly, my heart hammers against my chest in a chaotic, riotous rhythm.
Stupid heart. I never stood a chance at holding my nerve.
He’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, dressed down and barefoot, withhis wavy hair unstyled. He looks younger like this—almost bashful with his hands shoved into his pockets and his eyes darting every which way.
He’s nervous.
That makes two of us.
I shoot daggers at my best friend, and in return, she smirks and waves me forward. “Come on.”
I peer into the garage again.
Behind Alaric—where an old car was parked and stacks of boxes were housed the last time I was here—is lightness and abundant space. Multiple gleaming white worksurfaces are arranged in the center of the garage, a ring light positioned in front of each station. The back wall is lined with colorful storage containers. And—my heart leaps—there arefive3D printers lined up against another wall.
In the corner there’s a seating section outfitted with a funky rug, several beanbag chairs and ottomans, and my beloved heirloom couch.
“What is this?” I marvel, walking past Alaric as I catalog the details. I don’t know where to look. What I do know is that if I look at him, I’ll break. I don’t want to break again.
“Take this.” He places a small remote in my hand.
Electricity sparks between us, reminding me of every touch and intimate moment we’ve shared.
I’m frozen in place, overwhelmed and astounded by the sight before me.
“Go on,” he encourages. “Turn it on.”
I snap out of my reverie and fumble with the remote. When I touch the power button, a massive neon sign designed in the shape of my logo for A-Tizket A-Tasket lights up.
“Welcome to your new studio,” he murmurs.
