Chapter 12 #4
I close my eyes. I’ve had enough. “Give me your address.”
He returns the camera so it’s facing him. His eyes narrow. “Why?”
“So I can order some groceries for you. If you don’t have the time to go shopping, you can pay somebody else to do it for you.”
I leave out the part about what happens when the shopper can’t find an item and tries to substitute it for you. Let’s just say it leads to some interesting outcomes.
He laughs. “Absolutely not. I’ll do the shopping myself. It can be my day-off adventure.” He stands and sets down his mug. “If I text you a photo of my haul at checkout, will that satisfy you?”
“I guess,” I say, pretending to inspect him through the screen.
Theo mutters something under his breath and disappears. I hear the faint jingle of keys, a chair scraping against the floor. A moment later, his face reappears on screen. “Right, then. Give me ten minutes.”
“Setting a timer now.”
“You’re ridiculous,” he mumbles, though I catch the faintest trace of a smile.
“Only because I care.”
A brief flash of surprise flashes across his face at the word care. It’s so quick that I almost miss it.
“It’s all part of the upgrade to the friendship package,” I say firmly. “When you opted in, you gained the full suite of features—for better or worse. That includes the caring, the worrying, and the mandatory pep talks. Plus, the occasional right to call you out on your crap.”
His gaze lingers for a heartbeat longer before he looks away, reaching for his coat. “I’ll text you from the market,” he murmurs.
The camera wobbles as he slips the phone into his pocket. I hear the soft click of the door, then the faint sound of rain against the mic. He’s forgotten to hang up the call.
I reach for the screen, ready to disconnect, when I hear his voice—low, almost swallowed by static. “She’s too good to me.”
The words are so quiet, I almost convince myself I imagined them. But my hand hovers over the button, frozen, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears. Does he see us as more than friends too?
With a small, nervous laugh that no one hears, I press “End Call.” The screen goes dark, but the echo of his voice stays.
“We agreed on one American episode and one British episode,” Theo says, leaning back in his chair with the kind of smug satisfaction that makes me want to throw popcorn at him. “Admit it. There’s really no comparison as to which one’s superior.”
“But you didn’t laugh once,” I counter, curling my legs under me on the couch. “And you spent half the UK one critiquing everything—the actors, the lighting, the camera work, the budget. Come on, Theo. Just say it. The Americans got it right.”
“I laughed . . .” He pauses. “Internally.”
I narrow my eyes. “That doesn’t count.”
I honestly don’t get his hang-up. The British one is clever, sure, but it doesn’t have the same heart as the American version. There aren’t really any characters that make you want to stand up and cheer for them. It’s too . . . realistic.
He smirks. “I’m British, Kaori. Restraint is part of our culture.”
“Fine,” I say. “We’ll have to postpone judgment until we’ve watched at least four more episodes. From different seasons. You can’t judge a show by the pilot alone.” That ought to convince him.
“Bring it on.” He grins. “I’m sure season two will only strengthen my argument.”
“Whatever.” I stretch, arms over my head, my shoulders popping in protest. The living room is bathed in soft evening light now, the sky outside my window deepening toward dusk. “It’s five. I should probably start dinner.”
“What are you making?” he asks.
“Something easy,” I say. I almost blurt out Cup Noodles and stop myself just in time. Otherwise I’d look like one giant hypocrite after giving him a hard time about not having real food. “Rice and tofu.”
I’m picturing the half-empty bag of frozen stir-fry vegetables, the block of tofu, and the half-used bottle of teriyaki sauce waiting for me in the fridge. It’s my go-to lazy dinner. Not exactly gourmet, but it’s quick and easy.
“What about dessert?”
I shrug. “I ate the last of my cookies and chocolate stash earlier.”
Theo smirks. “Good.”
I frown. “Good? Why is that good? Being out of chocolate is a crisis. You should know that, Mr. Rocky Road.”
He doesn’t answer. He just keeps smiling, right as a knock echoes through my apartment.
“You’ll want to get that,” he says.
“Nope. I’m not expecting anyone or anything. It’s probably some guy trying to sell solar panels.” The last thing I want to do is waste my Theo time talking to some stranger.
“It’s not. It’s a delivery.”
“How do you know? Did you hack my doorbell camera for fun? Do you have a drone watching me?”
He waves me off. “You didn’t order anything . . . but I did.”
Is this revenge from earlier? I narrow my eyes. “What did you do?”
“Go. Answer the door,” he says, gesturing toward it. “I’ll wait.”
Suspicious, I set my phone down on the counter and cross the room. When I open the door, cool evening air rushes in. Sitting on the welcome mat is a small white box tied with a pale-blue ribbon.
I pick it up carefully and return to my phone, holding the box toward the camera. “Theo Riverton, what’s this?”
My fingers brush over the top of the box, and the gold lettering gleams under my kitchen lights—Juniper Row. My eyes widen. This is the most expensive chocolate shop in Orlando.
“Open it,” he urges.
I untie the ribbon slowly. Inside are three perfect layers of handcrafted chocolates—each glossy piece decorated with delicate scrollwork and gold dust, the kind of confection that looks too pretty to eat.
I close the lid again, stunned. When did he do this?
I’ve been on a virtual “date” with him most of the night. “This is . . . a lot of chocolate.”
“If you’re going to have chocolate,” he says easily, “you might as well have the best. Especially if you’re my friend.”
My heart does a little flutter. “Did you send one to Leon, Derrick, and Andy too?”
“What do you think?” he says. His voice is a dry, drawn-out drone, and he tilts his head back slightly, looking at me through half-lidded eyes, as if the very suggestion is preposterous.
“No.”
He nods once, his expression turning mock-serious as he adjusts his camera, the movement causing a slight blur of his dark sweater. “Their friendship package didn’t include a premium upgrade. Only yours.”
I giggle. “Seriously, Theo.” I glance down at the embossed label again, my throat tightening as the reality of it sinks in. He didn’t just order something. He chose this. “Thank you. I don’t even know what to say.”
“You’re welcome. Now tuck in and enjoy them already,” he says, his voice softening. He’s watching me intently now, leaning his cheek against his hand.
“I will,” I promise, tracing the gold-leafed corner of the box absently with my thumb, still in disbelief he’d send me something so expensive. “I’ll probably have to freeze some,” I muse, already calculating how to make the magic last.
He wrinkles his nose. “Why?”
“So I can savor them.” I look up, laughing. “I can’t eat three layers in one sitting. If you’re nice, maybe I’ll save a few for when you come over.”
That takes him by surprise. His brow lifts, just slightly. “You want me to come to your flat?”
“Yes?” I say, blinking, tilting my head as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Okay, it’s a little weird to invite your boss over, but it wouldn’t be as the boss. It’d be as a friend. “It’s fun to stream stuff over the app, but it doesn’t beat having you here.”
“You’re doing it again,” he says softly.
“What?”
“Catching me off guard.”
I force a small laugh, trying to chase away the flocks of cranes preparing for flight within my chest. “What can I say . . . I like to make life interesting.”
We both go quiet after that.
Theo glances toward the clock just out of frame, then back at me. “I should probably call it a night. It’s past ten here. I still have a couple things to do.”
My heart sinks a little, knowing he’s right. It’s late in London, and we’ve spent most of the day together. But that doesn’t stop me from selfishly wishing he’d go another hour or two.
“Thanks for spending the day with me. I enjoyed it,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” I say softly. “Good night, Theo.”
“Good night, Kaori.”
The call ends, and the screen goes dark, leaving only the quiet hum of my apartment appliances. I lean back against the counter, the glow from the city lights slipping through the blinds.
I stare at the black mirror of my phone, my own reflection looking back at me with a soft, dazed expression I barely recognize. The silence is heavy now—empty in a way it wasn’t five seconds ago.
That’s when it hits me—sudden and jarring, like someone’s slammed the emergency brakes on a coaster mid-ride. “Theo Riverton,” I whisper into the empty room. “I think I may be falling for you.”