Chapter 8 Riley
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Riley
I woke to my phone buzzing on the nightstand.
The text was from an unknown number.
Hi. This is Caelan. I got your number from Jade. I hope that’s okay.
My heart did a stupid thing in my chest. I stared at the message for a long moment, trying to formulate a response that didn’t sound desperate or eager or like I’d been thinking about him nonstop since the lake.
Before I could type anything, another message appeared.
I bought pastries this morning. Too many. I don’t know why I did that. I think I have a problem.
Then: Thessa says I definitely have a problem.
Then: Do you want some? I can bring them. Only if you want.
Then: They’re very good pastries. Croissants. The flaky kind.
Then: I’m making this weird, aren’t I.
Then: Sorry. You’re probably sleeping. Ignore this. Ignore all of this.
I was grinning at my phone like an idiot. I could practically hear his anxiety through the screen. The confident, intense man from the lake was completely absent, replaced by pure golden retriever energy. Eager hope and fear of rejection and way too many text messages in a row.
It was adorable and devastating. I was in so much trouble.
I’m awake, I texted back. And I never say no to free pastries.
His response was immediate. Literally three seconds later, like he’d been staring at his phone waiting.
What’s your address?
I hesitated. Giving him my exact address felt significant. Another wall coming down. I knew he probably suspected I lived in the zone, given the amount of times we’d stumbled into each other, but I wasn’t sure about the specifics…
I sent it anyway.
I’ll be there in 20 minutes, he responded. Then: Maybe 15. I walk fast.
Ten minutes later, not that I was counting, there was a knock at my door.
I had used that time to brush my teeth, splash water on my face, change out of my sleep shirt into a slightly nicer sleep shirt, and panic about the state of my apartment.
I shoved a pile of dirty laundry into my closet, kicked some books under the couch, wiped down the kitchen counter with a paper towel that may or may not have been clean, and decided the rest was good enough.
I checked myself in the mirror one more time.
My hair was doing a thing. Not a good thing, but a thing.
There wasn’t time to fix it. I smoothed it down with my hands, took a breath, and reminded myself that this was just pastries.
Just a friend bringing pastries. Very normal, nothing to panic about.
I was absolutely panicking.
I opened the door and Caelan was standing in my hallway, holding a bakery box large enough to feed a small army. His hair was slightly disheveled, wind or fingers, I couldn’t tell, and he was wearing a soft gray Henley that did unfair things to his shoulders. In his other hand was a gift bag.
“You do have a pastry problem,” I stepped back to let him in, suddenly very aware that I was in pajama shorts and a t-shirt that said “PLOT TWIST” across the chest. “Thessa was right.”
His eyes dropped to my shirt, lingered for a moment, then returned to my face with a hint of a smile. “Plot twist?”
“It’s a writing thing.”
“I gathered.” He stepped past me, close enough that I caught his scent, and his voice dropped slightly. “Though I’m curious what the twist is right now.”
“There is no twist. It’s just a shirt.”
“Disappointing. I was hoping for something dramatic.”
He set the bakery box on my kitchen counter and surveyed my apartment with a curious expression. His gaze landed on the closet door, which was bulging suspiciously from the laundry I’d crammed inside, then moved to the edge of a book spine visible beneath my couch.
“You cleaned for me?” He asked.
“What? No. This is how it always looks.”
“There’s a sock hanging out of your closet.”
I looked. There was, in fact, a sock. A bright pink one, dangling from the door like a flag of surrender.
“That sock lives there,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster. “It’s decorative. Very intentional. It’s a design choice.”
His mouth twitched. “I see. And the books pushed under your couch?”
“Floor storage. It’s trendy. You wouldn’t understand. It’s a Lysmont thing.”
He was definitely trying not to laugh now. “I apologize. I’m unfamiliar with Lysmont interior design trends.”
“Obviously. You’re from Duskland. Different aesthetic sensibilities.”
“Clearly.” He held out the gift bag. “This is for you.”
“What’s this?”
“A gift.”
“You already brought pastries.”
“Well, this is different.”
I opened the bag and pulled out a book. It took me a moment to register what I was looking at.
It was “His Darkest Obsession,” the book we’d been reading for book club.
But this copy was different. It was signed by the author, with a personalized message on the title page that read: “To Riley: may you find your own morally gray love interest who would commit murder for you. XOXO, Mara Chen.”
“How did you...” I looked up at him, genuinely stunned. “How did you get this?”
“I contacted her publisher. Explained I was a fan.” He shrugged like it was nothing. Like tracking down an indie romance author and convincing her to sign a personalized copy was just a thing people did on a Tuesday. “She was very accommodating.”
“Caelan.”
“Do you like it?”
I looked at the book. At the signature. At this ridiculous man who went out of his way to give me a gift this thoughtful and personal and completely unnecessary.
“I love it,” I said quietly. “Thank you.”
His whole face transformed. The hope that had been hiding in his eyes burst into full bloom, a smile spreading across his face that made him look younger and softer.
“Good,” he said. “That’s... good.”
We stood there for a moment, holding eye contact…Then my stomach growled loud enough to echo off the walls, and the moment broke into laughter.
We ate pastries at my tiny kitchen table, knees almost bumping in the cramped space, and I learned that Caelan had strong opinions about baked goods.
“The croissants here are adequate,” he said, waving a half-eaten one for emphasis. “But in the bakeries where I grew up, they were better. More layers. More butter.”
“Americans are stingy with butter?” That was a first.
“Very stingy.” He took another bite, chewed thoughtfully. “Where I come from, we believe butter is a...” He paused, and I caught the way he adjusted mid-sentence. “...human right.”
“Human right,” I repeated. “That’s a strong stance.”
“I have many strong stances.”
The way he said it made heat pool in my stomach. Being honest, everything he did made heat pool in my stomach. I was living in a constant state of horniness lately. I shoved a croissant in my mouth to avoid responding.
He watched me chew, amusement flickering in his expression. “That’s the third croissant you’ve used to avoid talking to me.”
I swallowed. “I’m not avoiding. I’m eating. You brought food. It would be rude not to eat it.”
“You shoved an entire pastry in your mouth the moment I said something that made you blush.”
“I didn’t blush.”
“Your cheeks are pink right now.”
“That’s... a medical condition.”
“A medical condition that only appears when I flirt with you?”
“You’re not flirting.”
“I’m absolutely flirting.” He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. “I’m being very obvious about it. I thought you’d appreciate the transparency.”
“I appreciate the pastries.”
“And the flirting?”
I grabbed another croissant. He laughed.
We talked for hours. About nothing and everything. About my writing, I told him about the book I was working on, a friends-to-lovers romance about a mysterious stranger who wasn’t at all based on anyone I knew, definitely not, why would he ask that.
“Mysterious stranger,” he repeated. “What’s he like?”
“Tall, blonde, intense, has a weird accent.” I realized what I was saying and backtracked. “I mean, brunette. Short. Very relaxed.”
“So the opposite of what you just said.”
“Exactly.”
“The opposite of me, specifically.”
“I don’t know what you’re implying.”
“I’m implying that you’re writing about me.” He looked far too pleased about this. “Am I the love interest? Do I have good dialogue? Am I sufficiently morally gray?”
Earth, please open and swallow me right now.
“You’re not in my book.”
“But if I were. Hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically, you’d be a secondary character. A comic relief, probably.”
“Ouch.”
“Maybe a villain. The kind of villain who gets a redemption arc in book two.”
“Ah.” He nodded solemnly. “So I’m the love interest.”
“That’s not what I said!”
“It’s what you meant. Villains with redemption arcs are always the love interest. I’ve done my research.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve done research on romance tropes?”
“Yes, extensive research, thorough in all things.”
We talked about his home, vague references to cold winters and family obligations and a place that sounded less like a country and more like a fantasy novel.
About our shared love of books, our different opinions on coffee (I needed it to survive, he thought it was “interesting but aggressive”), our mutual bewilderment at reality television.
“Why do they compete to marry a stranger?” he asked at one point, genuinely baffled. “This seems inefficient. In my...” He caught himself. “Where I’m from, courtship is more deliberate.”
“Deliberate how?”
“You choose someone. You pursue them, prove yourself worthy.” He said it simply, like it was obvious. “You don’t leave it to chance.”
“And if they don’t want you back?”
“Then you try harder.” His gaze held mine. “Unless they tell you to stop. Then you stop. But until then...” He shrugged. “You keep trying.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. It sounded like a promise.
“Is that what you’re doing?” I asked, surprising myself. “Trying?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you brought me an army’s worth of pastries and a signed book before nine in the morning.”
“And?”
“And I think that’s very... deliberate.”