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EIGHT

COURTNEY

The sun is still clinging to the edge of the sky when I reach my floor, towel slung over my shoulder, hair damp from my morning swim. My flip-flops slap against the concrete stair, echoing through the quiet stairwell as I devour one last page of my book before I open the door to my floor.

A dark blur moves ahead of me and I stop dead in my tracks. Thankfully the tightness in my throat muffles my yip.

Because Auguste Broussard is parked in front of my apartment. Again .

Same plain black hoodie, different day. Except… this time, his arms are full.

One hand cradles a coffee cup with a ceramic plate perched on top—what looks suspiciously like an entire pound cake. Balanced in his other arm, nestled against his chest like a sleepy child?

A puppy.

Not just any puppy, a boxer . They’re my favorite breed. I don’t even know why, just that I love them.

Only yesterday I was talking to Jordan one of the PTs about how much I love the breed and how I’ve always wanted one but?—

I raise a brow, instantly suspicious at how Auguste Broussard is standing outside my door… with the cutest boxer puppy ever. “Are you stalking me?”

Auguste doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Just cocks a brow like he’s waiting for me to say something he can use against me later .

My good Lord , something about that look—stoic, unreadable, stubborn as sin—makes heat lick up my spine.

Stupidly, Delilah’s voice echoes in my head: Maybe you like being chased by The Puckinator.

Dammit.

Damn her for always being right. Because I do, and I’m too worn out from my late night binging this goddamn book that makes me think about him non-stop.

It makes me wonder too much and too hard about how he’s always there every time I look in any direction.

Like an apparition. Or worse a figment of my slutty imagination.

Worse, I find myself looking forward to our next encounter.

A thrill lives inside my chest from not knowing which side of him I’m going to get—the quiet brooding caveman who communicates in scowls or this guy who shows up at my door with baked treats and the cutest puppy like it’s a completely normal thing to do.

I blink between him, the puppy, and the cake.

“Good morning,” Auguste says, totally deadpan.

My towel starts slipping from my shoulder as I stare at the squirmy ball in his arms. The puppy's got black and brown fur, one white-tipped paw, and sleepy eyes that melt every coherent thought in my brain.

“Is this your version of an apology? Bringing me a puppy?”

He lifts a shoulder. “The pup’s mine… but if you’re nice to me, I might let you cuddle him.”

“Who’s being a brat now?” I cross my arms and he chuckles—green eyes glowing brighter. “And the cake?”

His jaw ticks. “I made it.”

My mouth drops open. “You baked?”

His eyes narrow slightly, like I’m pushing it. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, it’s a thing.”

A totally hot thing. A guy has never baked me a cake before.

Auguste shifts the coffee and cake into one hand, offering me the puppy. Before I take the little critter from him, I offer my hand.

“Hey there, cutie,” I whisper as the pup sniffs me, then shimmies right into my arms like he’s been mine all along.

Meanwhile, Auguste watches silently as the puppy settles against me.

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know yet…”

I glance up. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “Uuh-well, I’m not good at making those sort of decisions. I mean, a name is for a lifetime… ”

I consider the floppy ears and oversized paws—this little guy is going to grow into a force of nature, I can tell by the mischievous glint in his eyes when he nibbles at the beaded bracelet on my wrist—the one Delilah made me.

“Samson.”

“Like the Bible guy?”

I smirk. “Like my best friend is named Delilah, and this little guy and I are already besties too. So it fits.”

Auguste hums in deliberation and then says it once, low: “Samson.”

Then again, softer as I cradle the puppy against my chest.

“I like it,” he says, holding out the coffee to me.

I don’t argue or fight the urge to take it.

“You’re impossible,” I murmur as I wrap my hand around the takeout cup.

Oh my, a spark races up my arm when our fingers brush. And suddenly, I can’t breathe. Or think. I’m frozen still waiting for what’s next.

“So I’ve been told.” Auguste’s eyes flick to mine. Hooded and gorgeous, blinking behind the coarse curl that falls over his forehead.

I don’t think I’ve ever met a man so beautiful. His eyebrows are just the right kind of thick and bushy, perfectly masculine and shapely. Even the bump on the bridge of his nose has character.

“So, uuh…” Auguste hesitates for a millisecond, his hand releasing the coffee cup I’m clutching and ruffling the top of Samson’s head. “You wanna come help me pick out some of his stuff?”

I should say no. I should shut this down. But Samson snuggles into my chest like he owns me. And if Auguste didn’t know what to call him, will he know what he should get for him?

“Yeah… okay,” I whisper. Then, on impulse, I add, “You might as well come in while I get ready.”

He balks when I open my door and head inside.

“Are you a vampire?”

“No?” he says quietly, confused.

“So why are you still waiting out there like you need an invite to come in?”

Auguste chuffs, shaking his head down at the floor as he comes in and shuts the door quietly behind him.

Inside, Samson wiggles free of my arms to explore. Auguste trails behind me like he’s been here before. And the thing is—he moves like he has. Like he knows exactly where to slip off his shoes and where to set the cake. It pricks at something in my chest, but I push it down.

While I head to the bed, I glance over my shoulder. “Make yourself at home.”

Auguste just nods, grabbing Samson before he races after me. I steal another quick glance at them before I disappear down the corridor to the bedrooms. The vastness of the apartment has shrunk with them here. That too big feeling is engulfed by Auguste’s presence and I like it too much.

Being around him.

Near him…

So much so that I rush through my showering routine. Instead of spending longer on my unruly hair, I bunch the top half into a high, loose ponytail that skims my jawline when it cascades around my face. The bottom half, I scrunch with some frizz, leaving it loose down the back of my sundress.

By the time I walk back out into the open plan living area, the scent of sugar and coffee has my mouthwatering.

I can’t get over how different the apartment feels as I look for Auguste. He’s outside on the large wraparound balcony when I find him.

There are two plates of cake on the outdoor table. My coffee has been split between two cups.

I don’t stop myself from appreciating the sight of him leaning back in one of the armchairs with Samson on his lap as I step out slowly. The city sprawls beneath us, ocean visible beyond the skyline. Golden light paints everything honey.

Auguste looks up when I snap a sneaky photo on my phone. He just looks so pretty in the glow of the sun. His light brown skin is luminescent and smooth. Begging to be touched.

“Hungry?” He asks with a quirk of his brow.

My face is blushed hot as I pull out the chair opposite his and sink into it. “Starving.”

We eat in silence at first. The nice, easy kind that feels like it belongs in the moment.

I take a bite of the cake and pause.

Okay, Broussard!

The cake is good. Like, really good. Dense and moist, and just the right kind of sweet. The kind that has you going back for more.

“Okay,” I say after a second bite, eyes narrowing at him when I find him watching me with an awed grin. “There’s no way this is your first time baking.”

He shrugs, moving his stare back to his half-eaten slice.

I raise a brow. “So you just had the perfect pound cake recipe lying around?”

His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “My mom texted it to me.”

“Wait.” I lean forward, grinning now. “You got your mom involved in your cake scheme?”

“It’s not a scheme.”

“It feels like a scheme.”

“I was being thoughtful.”

“Oh, so thoughtfully scheming .”

He sighs but finally glances back at me, and the look in his eyes is softer than I expect. “It’s my favorite. My granny used to bake it every morning when me and my siblings visited her in Barbados as children.”

Something about the way he says it makes me quiet down. My ribs squeeze tight around my lungs when he looks past me to the ocean in the background. Nostalgia gleams in his green gaze—fond and bright.

“My granny would have it on the table at the exact time that we sat down,” he continues, his voice distant, threaded with something that sounds a lot like homesickness. “Warm. Crumbly. She’d serve it with mango or banana salad and yogurt. We’d eat it out on the porch, hiding away from the hot sun.”

I blink because I’ve never been close to my grandparents. Mom’s parents are super conservative and keep themselves to their inner circle from church, and after my parents divorced, I didn’t see my paternal grandparents much.

“That sounds… really lovely.”

He nods slowly. “It was.”

His eyes flick back to mine, a little guarded now. Like maybe he’s said too much. So I lighten it. Just a touch.

“Well,” I say, slicing another bite off with my fork, “your granny would be proud. This is amazing.”

He watches me take another bite. The satisfaction when I hum around my fork brightens every inch of his face. It occurs to me that I like this too—bringing out his smile, soaking in his contentment.

I devour every last crumb until there isn’t so much as a smudge on my plate.

“You’ve got cake on your lip,” he says when I look up .

Before I can wipe it off, he reaches across the table. His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth. Slow. Deliberate.

I freeze.

As though he didn’t realize what he was doing, so does he.

There’s a whole air of oh shit with a dash of holy fuck where neither of us moves.

Not until Samson barks—sharp and demanding from where he’s plopped himself under the table.