Startled, I glance over my shoulder.

  He’s peering down at my phone, where it’s still vibrating on the table.

  I shake my head. “No. Rosalie has a rule. No phones at the table.”

  She snorts. “Like you’ve ever followed that rule. Five minutes ago you were sitting there texting.”

  “Pick up the phone,” Nick hollers. “It keeps buzzing.”

  “She’s right here,” Rosalie snaps. “Stop yelling at her.”

  “I’m not yelling, I’m talking at a normal volume.”

  He is in fact yelling, but it’s only because he can barely hear.

  And now I can barely hear, so I finally snatch the device from the table. If I don’t, I worry one of them will.

  “Hello?” I say, the single word coming out far too loud after the shouting match I just sat through.

  “Savannah?” Camden asks from far away, like he’s pulled the phone away from his ear.

  “Yeah, sorry.” I bring my voice down an octave. “What’s up?”

  He clears his throat. “I—uh,” he stammers. “I got your text.”

  Wincing, I brace myself for the brush-off. Dammit. I was counting on him doing it via text.

  Why can’t he be like guys my age who probably wouldn’t have even replied to the text, instead choosing to cut ties by ghosting me?

  Oh, because he’s a grown-ass man. That’s why.

  “Yeah, um, just thought it was important information for you. And us. And you know…because of our relationship and how invested I am in our future,” I ramble.

  Fuck, I was not prepared to actually explain the message to him, let alone in front of Rosalie and Nick, who are both staring at me like I’ve just told Camden I have a venereal disease.

  “Are you feeling okay?” he asks.

  Finally, he’s acting the way I thought he would. He thinks I’ve lost my mind. He’s questioning my sanity.

  “Yup. Feeling great,” I tell him. Might as well go all in and make him believe that I think this is rational behavior for a brand-new relationship.

  Just rip the Band-Aid off, Cam. Break my heart and let’s move on. I sent you a damn ovulation calendar, for god’s sake.

  He clears his throat again. “Well, obviously, we don’t have to go out tonight.”

  I thought I was prepared for the rejection. I thought my mental shields had been built high enough to block the blow. But I swear those words hit me like a frying pan to the chest.

  “Yeah,” I croak. Fuck, why do I feel like I’m going to cry? What is wrong with me?

  “But is there anything you need?”

  “Anything I need?” I parrot, confusion washing over me.

  Like a parting gift? I almost snort at the thought. That’s probably something Camden Snow would do. Send his ex a vibrator to keep her company since she no longer has access to him.

  Okay, maybe that’s a bit much. But he’d probably send sympathy flowers or a fruit arrangement. Actually…I eye my full plate of food. A fruit arrangement would be nice. Especially if it was dipped in chocolate. “I guess I wouldn’t say no to chocolate,” I hear myself replying.

  What the hell, Savannah?

  “Of course,” he responds immediately. “Yes. Absolutely. I already picked some up.”

  “What?” Jaw unhinged, I blink, then blink again. Disbelief hits me first, though it quickly morphs into anger. I texted him less than ten minutes ago, and he’s already purchased breakup chocolate for me? Wow. Jeez. “Do you keep chocolate stocked for all the girls you date?”

  “What? No.” There’s some shuffling on the other side of the phone, and when he speaks again, his tone is more even, though still hesitant. “I bought this for you. I also picked up a heating pad, and my sister says she likes salty foods when she’s on her period, so I’ll stop for fries as well. I’ll be at your place in ten. Do you need anything else? And think about what you want for dinner. We can have it delivered.”

  “Delivered?” I peer down at my plate again. “You’re on your way? What are you—” I swallow back the question and shake my head. “Camden, what are you talking about?”

  “You sent me the link to your app to tell me you’re on your period, right? I totally get that you wouldn’t want to go out when you’re feeling crappy, so I thought I’d bring dinner to you. Is that not what you want?”

  Tears prick the backs of my eyes, my nose tingling. Shit. I shift so I’m facing the wall because both Nick and Rosalie are watching me like I’m the nightly news.

  He thought I was telling him I’m on my period. He’s not breaking up with me, he’s bringing me chocolate.

  Without my permission, the tears fall. I’m crying about a man. And I’m not even on my period. Shit. Why is Camden Snow so perfect? And how the hell am I going to break up with him now?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  CAMDEN

  Me: You’re sure salty food and chocolate are the key here?

  Cora: Yes, Cam. There’s not a woman in existence who doesn’t like chocolate when she’s on her period.

  Me: Okay, it’s just…she seemed off.

  Cora: Honestly, I’m shocked she told you she was on her period. Women don’t typically talk about that stuff early on in a relationship. Either she feels exceptionally crappy, or you’ve been so great with her that she’s already comfortable being vulnerable with you. Either way, chocolate is key.

  Me: Thanks. I’m just not good at this stuff, and I really want to get it right. When she first gave me her number, I didn’t call her for a week, and she almost ended up on a date with someone else.

  Cora: Hahaha. I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. I’m just…well, actually, I am laughing at you. But also, it’s adorable. You’re doing the right thing. Promise.

  I glance over my shoulder at the bags in my back seat, then peer up at the older apartment building. This is the address she gave me. I’ve checked twice. But this is not a great neighborhood. I don’t think I like that she lives here alone.

  She should have security and a doorman. Or she should move in with me, where I can handle her security.

  I blow out a rough breath. I’m getting ahead of myself. Way ahead. We still haven’t gone on a damn date, and I’m talking about moving her into my house.

  And yet the idea doesn’t freak me out. None of this does. That alone should freak me out. The not freaking out should totally freak me out.

  “Get out of the car, man,” I mutter.

  And now I’m talking to myself. Fuck, I’m a disaster. I check the mirrors before stepping onto the street—because there is no off-street parking—and grab the bags from the back. I hit the lock button on my key fob twice for good measure, a little concerned that my Land Rover might not be here when I come back out.

  Though the area isn’t the safest, her building and the ones around it are well taken care of. The front door is decorated with a wreath and Christmas lights, and the names on the buzzer panel aren’t even faded. Donovan is first. Then Donadio. And finally S.B.

  My chest swells with pride when I note that she doesn’t have her last name written out on the label next to the buzzer. Smart girl.

  Only as I’m looking at her initials do I realize that I don’t know her last name. Huh.

  I hit the buzzer and take a step back. Half a second later, the door swings open, and I’m practically run down by a little girl.

  “Piper!” a man calls as he jogs out of the building behind her. “Sorry,” he says as his daughter, I’m guessing, turns and gives him a mischievous grin. “She’s a quick one.”

  My hands are full, so I can’t introduce myself properly, but I smile and dip my chin. “No worries. I’m heading up to Savannah’s.”

  The little girl watches me, eyes narrowed with curiosity, and returns to the entryway.

  The man nods, assessing me. “She’s at the Donadios’ place right now.”

  I frown. How does he⁠—

  “I’m not stalking her or anything. Swear it. It’s just that they’re pretty loud up there. It’s impossible not to know when they have visitors.”

  “And they’re on the second floor?” I ask, scanning the names next to the buzzer again.

  Nodding, he snags his daughter by the hand. “How do you know Savvy?”

  My smile grows. I like that he’s a bit suspicious and vetting me. “Camden Snow, Sav’s boyfriend.”

  He staggers back a step. “Really? Wow. I had no idea she was seeing someone. That’s great.” Head tilted, he studies me thoughtfully. “Camden Snow. Why’s that name familiar?”

  I smile. “Hockey fan?”

  He points at me, his dark eyes going wide. “That’s who you are. Man, you were on the dream team. I was still in high school when you played. My friends and I even got tickets to a game our senior year. It was the year you guys won the cup.”

  “Which one?” There’s no sense hiding the cocky smirk that takes over. I’m well-known for it, after all.

  Chuckling, he looks down at his daughter. “Pip, this guy is famous.”

  “And Savvy’s boyfriend,” she says in the cutest high-pitched voice.

  I grin. “Yup. It’s still pretty new, though. Think you could put in a good word for me?”

  She nods. “I can do that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Want me to walk you up?” the man asks, gesturing for me to enter the building.

  “Nah. Thanks. I’ll call her and see if she wants me to wait for her at her place or meet the Donadios.”

  “They’re loud,” he warns, eyeing the stairway. “But no one makes a better meatball than Mrs. D. I’m John, by the way. I live here”—he points toward the door to the left of us—“Savvy helps us out with the kids sometimes. We’ve got four of ’em.”

  “Shit.” The word has barely left my mouth when I realize my mistake. Face heating, I cringe. “I mean duck.”

  He chuckles. “Oh my god. That’s a Bolts thing, right?”

  “More like a Langfield thing, but yeah, all the Bolts say duck.”

  He shakes his head, a huge smile on his face. “This is so cool. I can’t wait to tell the guys at the station.”

  “It was nice meeting you, John. Make sure you keep an eye on Sav for me, yeah?”

  He nods. “Anytime.”

  He and his daughter head out into the cool night, and I head up the steps. I consider knocking on the Donadios’ door but decide to text her instead, thinking she may need an excuse to leave. I wouldn’t mind meeting more people in her world, though. Every day I realize I want to know more about her. I don’t think there’s a thing I won’t like discovering about Savannah.

  Me: Hey, baby. I’m here.

  Baby girl: I’m at the neighbors’ place. I’ll leave now and meet you upstairs.

  A moment later, I hear her voice on the other side of the door on the second floor. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but her neighbors’ loud voices are crystal clear.

  “Make sure he’s good to you,” a woman with a thick Italian accent says.

  “Who says she wants him to be good to her?” a man hollers in response. “She’s not dating, remember?”

  “She wasn’t dating, but she obviously is now,” the woman replies as the door swings open and Savannah appears on the other side, cheeks flushed, looking flustered.

  Her eyes go wide when she sees me.

  “Oh, is that him?” The woman pushes into the doorway next to Savannah. “He’s cute,” she yells over her shoulder, presumably to her husband. When she turns back, she takes me in from head to toe without an ounce of shame. “And old. Savannah, sweetheart, how old is he?”

  Savannah’s eyes fall shut and her chest and neck turn as bright as her cheeks. “He’s not that old.”

  With a chuckle, I shrug. “I’m forty-six.”

  “Forty-six,” the man hollers. “That’s old.”

  “He’s not that old,” Savannah says, louder this time.

  A full laugh escapes me. “They’re not wrong.”

  She huffs a sigh. “Don’t encourage them. I’ll never hear the end of it.” Pasting on a smile, she turns to the woman. “Good night, Rosalie. I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You should bring your man friend.”

  “Boyfriend,” I correct with a grin.

  She shakes her head. “You’re too old to be a boyfriend.”

  I still can’t see the man, but his words ring out loud and clear. “Forty-six is too old to be a boy.”

  “My Nico is never wrong,” Rosalie tells me. “But yes, you should come tomorrow. Sunday dinner. Bring wine.”

  Savannah huffs. “He might have plans. You don’t just tell people to come over and tell them what to bring.”

  I smile. “No plans, and I’ll cover the wine. No problem.”

  “See? That’s a good boy,” Rosalie says.

  It’s tempting to point out that she just told me I’m too old to be a boy, but by the exasperation on Savannah’s face, it looks like she’s desperate to get out of here. I’m itching to get my hands on her anyway, so I only nod in answer and step back so she can exit.

  When she finally does, I angle in and press a kiss to her cheek, then bring my mouth to her ear. “If they don’t think you should call me your boyfriend, do you think they’d approve of the name you use when it’s just the two of us?”

  She whacks me in the stomach. “Stop.” The single word is sharp, but when she looks up at me, her eyes dance with amusement.

  “Come on, baby girl. Say it for me. Just once.”

  She purses her lips, trying hard to hide her smile.

  “Daddy,” I say in a higher-pitched voice, pretending to be her.

  She snorts.

  “It’s fine. I’ll get you to say it before the night is over.” I press another kiss to her cheek and then motion toward the stairs. “Now lead the way so we can finally get our first date started.”

  Upstairs, Savannah opens the door to a studio apartment. The walls are red brick, the room small. Rather than a couch, there’s a bed pushed up against the wall, its purple comforter a rumpled mess. To the left is a wall of kitchen cabinets and a black fridge, along with a small black two-person table. On the right, beside the doorway, is a television set up to be viewed from the bed. All in all, the entire space is probably four hundred square feet.

  “It’s not much, I know,” she says, like she’s taking in the room from my perspective.

  The embarrassment in her tone is like a knife to the gut. I rush to set the bags on the table, then turn back to her and cup her upper arms, ducking so we’re eye to eye. “You’ve got great neighbors and a warm bed. Seems like it’s exactly what you need.”

  She nods, her shoulders relaxing a bit. She’s in a pair of oversized black sweats rolled at the waist and a soft-looking black ribbed long-sleeved shirt. Her red hair is piled high on her head, and there’s very little, if any, makeup on her face. Maybe the remnants of the day’s mascara.

  As I catalog her, it hits me. She never planned on coming to dinner. Does that mean that when she texted, she was trying to cancel? Did I misread the signals?

  Shit.

  “How are you feeling?” I hedge.

  She shrugs, eyes darting to one side. “Fine.”

  “I’ve got a heating pad for your cramps. If you get them, that is⁠—”

  “I’m okay for now, but thank you.” She nibbles on her lip, eyeing the bags on her table. “And thank you for bringing all of this. You seriously didn’t have to.”

  “If you want me to leave, it’s okay.”

  It’s the last thing I want to do, but she’s been acting weird since she sent that text, and I can take a hint. I might not like it, but I won’t force her to spend time with me.

  She grasps my hand and squeezes, her green eyes shining as she looks up at me. “No. Please, stay.”

  “Are you sure?” Even as I ask the question, I step closer.

  She nods, then gives another shoulder shrug. “I’m a bit thrown having you here, but that’s a me issue, not you.”

  My heart sinks a little. “Why is that?”

  She nods toward her bed. “Can we sit? I know it’s weird that my bed is my couch, but I don’t want to sit in a stiff chair right now,” she says, eyeing the little kitchen set against the other wall.

  I smile. Damn, her awkwardness is adorable.

  I’ve had my tongue in her ass. I’ve smacked her pussy and I’ve been buried to the hilt inside her when she comes. She was a goddess in every one of those moments, but right now, standing before me, I swear I’m seeing the real, unfiltered version. And I fucking love it.

  So I follow her to her bed, and when she settles beside me, I pull her onto my lap. “Baby girl, you’re killing me,” I murmur into her neck. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

  She pulls back and presses her palm to my cheek, her eyes boring into mine. “I don’t have people here. I don’t show them this side of me.”

  Unease swirls in my gut. “But why?”

  “You’ve seen the Warrens’ house. And all the Langfields’ homes too, I’m sure. And Sutton Jones, another one of my closest friends—her mom is Elizabeth Sweet,” she says, her shoulders sagging. “Every one of my friends has a perfect family and their own beautiful apartment. And let’s not even talk about your place. I’m sure the women you date⁠—”

  “I don’t date,” I say gruffly.

  She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. The women you fuck.”

  That unease curls into a ball in the pit of my stomach. “I can’t change who I was before I met you.”

  She shakes her head, huffing out an annoyed breath. “I’m not saying I want you to. I’m just saying that I’m not like them. Any of them.”

  Despite my concern, I can’t help but smirk. “That’s true.”

  She frowns, those beautiful green irises dulling a little.