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Chapter Eight
When the knock sounds on my door a few hours later, I hesitate to answer it because sometimes people from the neighborhood wander in looking for food or money. Before I open, I do what I always do. I ask, “Who is it?”
“Garrett.”
Honest to goodness. I’m shocked. Pulling open the door, I realize I’ve got on my old sweatshirt again. The one with the holes. It’s too late now. “What are you doing here?”
From behind his back, Garrett produces a small bouquet of flowers. “I’m sorry.” Taking them in hand, I get a closer look at them. There are all kinds of flowers, including a tulip, a yellow rose, a lily of some kind, and a few others I don’t recognize. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did. I behaved badly, and I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” Stepping aside, I make room for him to enter my apartment.
“Molly and I agreed to a truce on the ride to Oak Park.”
“Did you?”
She had sent a text message apologizing to me earlier.
“We did.”
Moving into my small kitchen, I find a glass and fill it with water. Unwrapping the flowers, I set them into the water one by one, pinching the ends off as I go to shorten some of them. When I’m finished, I set the flowers onto my little dining table. “They’re beautiful.” Should I tell him he’s the first person to give me flowers? No. I’d better not.
“I’m glad you like them.” Garrett’s still standing near the front door. His face, I can’t read. He’s not frowning, but he’s not smiling either.
“Would you like to come in?”
“Sure.” He moves in further and sits on my sofa. “Your place is small.”
I chuckle. “It is, but it probably seems even smaller to you. You’re a big guy.”
He smirks. “I suppose.”
“What’s your place like?”
He perks up. “Funny you should ask.”
“Oh?”
“I wanted to invite you over for dinner.”
“You want to make me dinner?”
“Yeah. Nothing fancy. My skills in the kitchen are limited, but I can grill a steak and make a baked potato.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. I stopped at the store and picked up a few things.”
I look down at my outfit. The jeans are gone, and I’ve changed into leggings and the old sweatshirt, of course. “Should I change?”
“No.” I smile at his reply. “You look pretty like that.”
“Like what?”
“Comfortable.”
“Okay,” I laugh. “Women don’t like to hear they look ‘comfortable.’”
