“I know.”
“Just remember that Alex is always going to be on Sunny’s, so if you can’t figure out what you want, you need to stop chasing her like she’s some bunny you want to catch.”
“She’s not a bunny.”
“Exactly.”
I must wear a blank expression, because she sighs and looks up at the sky. Actually, she looks up at the roof of the overhang.
“If you want to have a relationship, you have to make compromises.”
“Gotcha.” I don’t really, but it’s seven, and I don’t want to be late for my flight.
“Send me a message when you get there.”
“’Kay.”
I watch her drive away in Waters’ car and wonder what compromises she’s been making for him, and what Sunny will have to give up to be with me. If she still wants to.
CHAPTER FIVE
WINGBACK CHAIR MEMORIES
Though I do manage not to miss my flight on the second attempt, it’s two-thirty in the morning by the time I finally make it to Sunny’s house. I should’ve been here more than two hours ago. There was construction on the highway, and the GPS cut out while I was on a detour. I accidently put the wrong address back into it, and I’d gone forty kilometers in the wrong direction by the time I noticed. The open field of cows was a dead giveaway I’d missed a turn somewhere.
I grab my duffle bag from the front seat, exhausted. I still have to deal with the fallout from today. The more I think about it, the more I recognize that the pictures from last night and today don’t look good, especially taken out of context. The one of me naked with Flash Beaver is the worst of them. I’m not known for being the kind of guy who sticks with one girl. It still sucks that no one believes I can manage an actual relationship.
The motion sensor kicks in as I get out of the car, flooding the driveway with light, and nearly blinding me. Sunny’s tiny, ugly eco car is parked in front of my rented SUV. She left it at an angle, and the front passenger-side tire is in the garden, crushing her mom’s flowers.
I shoulder my bag, lock up my rental, and hit the doorbell. Anxious barking accompanies the clip of nails on the stairs. Titus, a Papillion, and Andromeda—Andy for short—are Sunny’s dogs. They’re both rescues with serious anxiety issues. Titus likes to lick people’s toes, and Sunny doesn’t seem to mind. It’s weird.
Andy’s a Dane, so I can see him through the curtain covering the front window. He paces back and forth, whining. I have treats in the car for him. I run back to the SUV and grab the bag with all the gifts. Fishing out the gourmet dog biscuits, I slip one through the mail slot. Andy snarfs it down and then pokes his nose back through, looking for more.
When Sunny still hasn’t come down a minute later, I pull up her contact and hit the microphone.
“I’m at your front door.”
I must not enunciate properly because front door is autocorrected to foghorn. I hit the doorbell a second time, erase the message, wait for Andy to stop barking, and try again, speaking more slowly this time. I can’t dictate for shit when I’m tired. This time front door comes up looking mostly right. There aren’t any red lines, so I press send.
I get a message back almost instantly.
WTH? Y r U at frat dorm?
I read the text and frown, then hit the text-to-speech function so I can listen to it, because it’s half random letters instead of words. I know she’s angry, but I should be able to make things better. I’m pretty decent at cleaning up messes, except for when I was traded to Chicago. There wasn’t anything I could do to cover up that one. The pictures of me and the coach’s niece in the bathroom stall went viral in a hurry.
The sexy British chick in my phone reads the words frat dorm back to me instead of front door. Jesus. That’s what I get for not listening before I send something.
Sory. Attocorect. Front Door. Please let me in.