The unsettling thing?
I do.
I trust this woman who just emerged from my shrubs and took over my kitchen like she’s been doing it all week.
Which, unnervingly, might be true.
Probably not a good idea to trust your stalker.
Even if sheisgorgeous.
“Ivy.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I appreciate this. Really. But you don’t have to?—”
“I know,” she says lightly. “I want to.”
She turns to me with a smile, wearing the sweatshirt I gave her like it belongs on her.
Every coherent thought leaves my body.
“How’s work been going?” she asks, rinsing dishes and loading them into my dishwasher.
“Uh…”
Work. What’s work?
My brain feels like it’s been put in a blender. Ivy movesthrough my space with confidence—efficient, comfortable—like she belongs here. Like this is her routine, too.
She finally faces me, an expectant look on her face.
I just stare.
She’s standing there like a?—
I swallow hard.Girlfriendflashes through my mind like a warning sign.
Panic slams into my chest.
I don’t do girlfriends.
“It’s fine,” I manage. “But Ivy, really. This is unnecessary. I can make my own coffee?—”
She’s already pouring some into a mug and handing it to me. Her other hand pats my shoulder. “Go enjoy it on the deck. I’ll finish up in here.”
“You don’t need to?—”
She waves me off and gently pushes my shoulder. “I’ve got it under control.”
Somehow, I end up back outside.
I watch through the glass as she finishes loading the dishwasher, then grabs a Swiffer and starts on the kitchen floor, humming softly.
I take a sip of the coffee—and groan.
It’s perfect. Bitter and sweet in the exact balance I like. Like Christmas morning in a mug.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Ivy followed me into the city and watched the barista make my coffee.
But that’s ridiculous.
