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Or something.

Maybe a stress-induced waking sleepwalking kind of thing?

I’ve never heard of that, but people come up with new ailments and disorders daily, it seems.

Whatever actually happened, I’d prefer not to think of it again. Time can soften the edges of the memory until it’s more a foggyDid that even happen?and less a solid reality.

That’s my plan. That—and to avoid my closet.

And to stop all my thoughts that keep boomeranging back to Archer.

Which is even harder after the run-in we just had. On my way to the parking garage, I saw Archer jogging toward me on the sidewalk. I didn’t recognize him at first because he was in running clothes. Correction: running shorts.

And that is all.

Yes, he had on shoes and socks, but I wasn’t paying attention to those. Totally irrelevant. No—my full focus was on Archer’s bare, muscly, sweaty chest.

So, that’s what he’s hiding under those suits.

I had my cheek pressed right … there.

That’s not a body built by cookies.

As he saw me, he slowed to a stop, and then all my focus shifted to not tripping or falling over or saying something stupid.

The good news: I did not trip or fall or say something stupid.

The bad news: I couldn’t locate words at all.

And when Archer stopped right in front of me and ran a hand through his dark, sweaty hair, making his biceps pop, it only got worse. I stood there, staring stupidly. I think I was even smiling a dreamy, goofy smile, but I’m not certain what my face was doing. At that point, my entire body was running on a backup generator.

“Hello, Willa the Person,” Archer said in that low, rough voice of his, the tiniest of smiles lifting one corner of his lips.

At which point I lifted a hand and waved. Not a full wave either. One of those little finger waves, the kind you’d expect from some vapid socialite with a purse dog and a spray tan.

Archer frowned, perhaps wondering if I was sleepwalking again, and before he could ask, I walked right around him and hoofed it to my car like I was being chased by the boogeyman. An over six-foot, very well-built boogeyman who doesn’t like cookies but also is now into calling me by a cute nickname.

I’m startled when Dad’s hand drops over mine. “What?” I ask.

Gently, he lifts my hand away. “You’ve been jamming your finger into the button forever. I think the whistle’s about to give out.”

“Oh … sorry.”

“Everything okay?” he asks, even as he’s directing the train back to its resting spot at the station with the controls. He could probably do this in his sleep.

“Totally!” I respond a little too brightly.

But he seems to buy it, and Mom calls us up for dinner before I have to flat-out lie about catching feelings for a man I really shouldn’t. Or about the still lingering melancholy brought on by the baby cookies.

Over dinner, the ache in my chest grows as I sit across the table from my parents. Mom and Dad weren’t just high school sweethearts; they’ve been dating since junior high. Or,going out, which is what they tell me people called it back then.

That’s their favorite running joke: “Where were we even going?” Mom likes to ask.

“Eventually, to the altar,” Dad will answer, and then it devolves into laughter and, inevitably, kissing.

Again, they are adorably gross.

A weird kind of silence falls when I’m taking the last bite of dumpling, the one I’d been saving to the very end. I’ve tried this dish in a number of restaurants before, but nothing beats Mom’s dumplings, even if they’re made from a box of Bisquick.