‘Good?’
‘Nerves are a sign that you care about her.’
I turn off the oven and accept that the cookies will be the best I can make them. ‘What if she says no? It’ll break my heart.’
‘A broken heart proves you’re still alive. Better than sitting in your flat and telling stories to weird blokes on the internet. If she’s not the one, there will be another.’
‘She’s the one, Gran.’ As crazy as it is to admit, I can feel it deep in my bones. Maggie has consumed me since the moment she threw me in her car and hot-footed it to Scotland.
‘Stop being such a wuss and take the cookies over. Otherwise I will.’
God. No. I glance at the clock. Then at the cookies.
Fuck.
‘Okay. I’m going.’
‘Good. And if she slams the door in your face, you come round here and share your cookies with me. Now off you go.’
She hangs up, and I groan.
It’s now or never.
Maggie’s door is only eight steps from mine, but it might as well be six miles by the way I’m sweating when I get there. I clutch the plate of cookies like a Girl Scout, but lacking their confidence. My heart thumps so hard I’m mildly concerned that I’m having a heart attack, and I really don’t want to go dying on her doorstep.
Breathe.
You can do this. You’ve done far scarier things.
I’m not convinced that that’s true. Even having Eddie going at me with a knife had me marginally less stressed than putting myself on the line emotionally does. She might choose to slam the door. To discard me like everyone but Gran always has.
I raise my hand, then lower it.
Raise it again.
Finally, I knock.
The plate shakes until I grip it so hard it stills. There’s a scuffing noise on the other side of the door that has my jaw tight.
The door swings back, and she’s there. Within arms reach.
Maggie wears an oversized T-shirt that’s slipped off one shoulder, her curls in absolute disarray. Her glasses are smudged with a fingerprint where she must have grabbed them in a hurry.
When I see her, I feel the warm sensation ofhome.
‘Roman?’
I swallow and stick out my hand.
‘I’m your neighbour, Roman. Unemployed former douchebag.’ I lift the plate slightly. ‘I made you some cookies.’
She stares at the cookies. Then at me.
‘What are you doing?’
My throat bobs, and I feel like a twat, standing there with one hand out and the other holding the plate. ‘I’m introducing myself, like I should have the first time I saw you. Starting again the way I would have if I hadn’t had my head so far up my own ass.’
Her brows lift as she leans against the door frame and surveys my face.
