Page 45 of Lawson
Relief uncoils in my chest as I spot her sitting behind the wheel of her car, bobbing her head to some music I can hear blaring just outside her door. I tap on her window, and she jolts slightly, then smiles as she kills the ignition and gets out.
“You really are the best,” she says.
I smile down at her, reaching for her hand, happy when she doesn't hesitate to take it. “I know,” I say. “Trust me, I'm always ready to be your hero.”
Blakely laughs, and it does wonders to chase away the worry crowding those blue-gray eyes of hers. “Always with the cheesy lines.”
“It doesn't make them untrue,” I say as we make our way to her apartment.
She hesitates a moment, then tears the note off of her door, glancing around the parking lot as if Brian might pop out of a bush or something. If that fucker is that prepared to cross boundaries, then he's going to lose a few teeth tonight. That's all there is to it.
She tucks the note underneath her arm, fiddling with her keys before she unlocks the door and we both go inside. I grab the roses and lock the door behind us.
“He doesn't have a key, does he?”
“He did,” she says. “But luckily my apartment manager is amazing, and he changed the locks for me the minute I broke up with Brian.”
“That's a relief,” I say, following her into her small kitchen. She flicks on the lights as we go. Her apartment is on the ground level though, with plenty of windows that could easily be shimmied open. I don’t point out this fact, not wanting to scare her further. I try to figure out how to calmly work it into a conversation. If she’s truly worried about this guy, investing in window sensors isn’t a bad idea.
“What would you like me to do with these?” I ask, holding up the roses.
I'm not sure if she hears me, because she’s opened the note that was taped to her door, her eyes skimming the words I can't make out from here.
She groans, rolling her eyes before she wads up the note and throws it in the trash. She stomps over to me, yanking the flowers out of my hands and throwing them—vase and all—into the garbage too. It completely fills up her bin, but I'm not going to say anything. I'll just make sure to take that trash out when I leave.
“He tried to get in,” she says, her palms splayed on the counter as she leans against it. “His note was an angry accusation about me changing the locks. Claiming that all he wanted to do was leave me a surprise. Fuckingasshole.”
“Shit,” I say. “That's definitely crossing a line. Do you want to call the cops? Open up a case file so at least they know?”
Blakely considers for a few moments, worrying her plump bottom lip between her teeth. I immediately shut down all thoughts involvingmeworrying that lip for her, because this is so not the time.
“No,” she finally says. “It's fine. He’ll get the hint at some point. If I bring cops into it, it’ll be a whole mess and it’ll probably piss him off more because it’ll hurt his chances in the competitions, and I really don't need that on my hands. Especially because he didn't really do anything except for leave me a note and flowers.” She blows out a breath, raking her fingers through her long blonde hair that hangs over the Badgers jersey she's still wearing, a pair of black leggings tucked into a pair of yellow sneakers that make her look downright sexyandadorable, if that's possible.
“So much for a relaxing night,” she says, sounding more like she's talking to herself than me. “I'm so sorry I took you away from the party. I really appreciate you coming over, but you can totally get back to it now. I know you’d rather be celebrating with your team.”
“There’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here, with you.” The admission is out before I can stop it, and I cringe a little at the vulnerability spilling out of me. I usually keep that shit locked up tight. But I quickly shrug at myself, knowing it’s the truth, and I’ve never apologized for telling the truth before, even when it’s not fun to hear.
“Really?” she asks skeptically. “You'd rather be here, checking my apartment for a stalker ex-boyfriend and listening to me whine about the situation? Rather watch Netflix and eat ice cream than celebrate your first preseason win with your team?”
“That depends on the ice cream, but I’m always down for Netflix.”
Blakely's laugh is infectious, and it brings a smile to my lips that I'm unable to stop.
She heads over to her freezer, opening it and then turning to me. “I've got triple chocolate chip, and pistachio.”
“Fuck yeah,” I say. “Grab them both and point me toward the TV.”
She laughs, grabbing the individual pints out of the freezer and two spoons as she heads over to me. “I usually watch Bridgerton in bed…in my PJ's.”
“That's even better,” I say, waggling my eyebrows just to get her to laugh again.
Which she does. And I feel like I've won tonight all over again.
I take the ice cream out of her hands and follow her through her small living room and down a short hallway into the one bedroom that she has.
It's simple and modern, with splashes of color in the form of pillows and a few pictures of art on her wall. Her bed is in the center of the room, pressed against the focal wall, and it almost takes up the entire space. A TV is nestled in between some do-it-yourself built-ins on the opposite side.
“Oh shit,” I say, checking out the setup. “You really do have the perfect room for marathoning shows.”