Page 16

TEN

COURTNEY

At first, it’s cute.

The coffee waiting outside my door.

The elevator that always happens to open when I’m in the hallway.

The ride that conveniently rolls up just as I’m about to call an Uber.

Auguste never explains. Never even pretends to have an excuse. Just holds the door open like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Maybe it is normal. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Because I can’t stop thinking about him.

I can’t stop looking at the photos that I took of him and Samson when we went out together. The other night I couldn’t stop myself from picturing gorgeous Auguste every time I pick up my book…

So yeah, maybe I’m the problem here. Me and my trust issues. Because it makes sense for us to be on the same schedule. To be caught in proximity. Logistics…

Except. It happens again. And again.

And again.

By the fifth morning in a row, I’m FaceTiming Delilah, venting my thoughts while pacing across the living room.

“I’m telling you, he’s just… always there ,” I say, glancing at the coffee he left with the doorman this morning.

Delilah raises a perfectly arched brow—she’s enjoying my unraveling far too much. “You know who else ‘just shows up’ like that? Serial killers.”

I snort. “That’s... reassuring. ”

“I’m just saying, if you turn up dead in a ditch, I’m going to be so mad at you.”

“You’re the one who’s constantly pushing me to let him in and?—”

Delilah lifts a finger like she’s about to give the final word on the matter.

“This is personal preference, so take it as you may… but, if I’m gonna get offed, it better be after a mind-blowing orgasm and the kind of dick that rewires my personality.

If your potential murderer smells like a sex god on the way to Pound Town and knows your coffee order, you better let him rearrange your guts first.”

I choke on my spit. “Oh my god.”

“What? I’m just being practical!”

Ugh… “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I’m ending this call.” The roll of my eyes only makes her grin wider.

“You’re into the hockey stalker. Say it out loud?—”

I hang up on her cackle.

The next morning, I wake up earlier with a plan to fluster Auguste.

The Comets are spending the day at Disneyland; if I’m going to get there on time, I need to get an Uber in the next five minutes.

I slip out the side entrance, hair still damp, earbuds in, zero makeup, dressed in an oversized tee and bike shorts.

He’s not going to catch me this time, I tell myself, pausing when a pang of disappointment cuts through my chest.

The stupid thing about my plan is that Delilah is right—I look forward to coming downstairs every morning to find Auguste waiting for me. I’ve never had a guy do that before—show up even when I am a brat. Especially then. I think Auguste likes that stubborn and snarky part of me the most.

Now, here I am trying to pull a fast one on him even though I’m cutting my nose off to spite my face. It’s ridiculous and I’m in half a mind to turn around and go back inside, wait for him to get here.

Then I see him.

Leaning against his Lexus like he’s been there since dawn. One hand holding a leash, the other holding the Snow White tumbler he bought for me. Samson sits beside him, tiny and smug .

I freeze mid-step.

Auguste Broussard has outdone me again.

“Excited for Disneyland?” He holds out the coffee, making a point of checking his other wrist. “We’re early this morning.”

I stay two steps above him, arms folded. “You’ve got to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“This. The timing. The… psychic Uber stalking.”

He shrugs. “I know your habits.”

“You shouldn’t.”

I snatch the coffee with a faux glare because he looks especially cute in a black Mickey Mouse hoodie with ears and loose sweat shorts that cut off halfway down his thick thighs. Each muscle is cut and defined to perfection, like they were carved by God himself.

This is exactly what thigh porn should be, and my lady boner is appreciating every inch of his athletic legs when he leans in, ducking into my line of sight with his coarse curls brushing my forehead as he tells me, “You’d be surprised what I know about you, Princess.”

I glance up, squinting at the bright ray of sun that stabs me in the eyes. “Spoken like a true stalker.”

Auguste just smirks. One large hand scrunches the unruly mop at his forehead while the other offers me Samson’s leash.

I take it, exchanging my camera bag for it as Auguste opens the car door for me and I lift on my tiptoes to level him with my sternest glare. “If this is an elaborate murder plot, Delilah has receipts. Your name. Your car. The fact that you smell like cedar and have dangerous brooding energy.”

His smirk deepens. “You’ve been talking to your friend about me?”

“Don’t read into it.”

“Oh, I’m reading into it,” he says. “Extensively. Like a dirty romance book.”

My breath catches. My face heats.

I narrow my eyes. “Wait. How do you know I read?—?”

“You left that book on your couch the other day. Interesting cover.”

“You looked it up?” I stiffen halfway through getting in the car while he rounds to the other side and pauses short of getting in to grin at me across the top of the sleek Lexus.

“I did more than look it up.” He grins. “Guy in a mask chasing a girl through the woods… gotta admit, it sounded a little disturbing.”

He gets in with a shrug and I follow .

“Okay.” I groan, covering my face with the coffee cup. “Like I said—don’t get any ideas.”

“I think you’d like the ideas in my head.”

I stare at him.

He stares back.

“Are you flirting with me?”

Auguste just shrugs like the answer should be obvious.

“You’re ridiculous,” I mumble with more fluster than I’d like to admit.

A muffin awaits me on the dash as usual. They’re getting yummier by the day. And today there’s a dollop of something on top.

“What’s this,” I ask, sniffing the soft frosting.

“Yogurt frosting,” he replies matter of fact. “Made it with coconut and almond protein yogurt, powdered sugar, and lime zest.”

I lick the peak, trying the new addition before I tell him, “Good job, Masterchef.”

“Thanks, Princess. Make sure you defend that muffin with your life, Sammy’s already devoured two and licked the frosting bowl.”

“Of course, he did… cause it’s yummy, right, baby boy?”

Auguste chuckles at me when I offer Samson just a little more frosting on the tip of my finger. When the engine rumbles to life, my playlist starts through the speakers like the past five mornings—except something’s off.

The first song isn’t mine.

I scroll on the infotainment system. Swipe out and then tap back into the playlist to make sure it’s the right one. It is, but with new additions.

He’s added songs to my playlist.

My gaze cuts to him. “You hacked my Spotify?”

Auguste doesn’t even glance my way. “It was already connected. I just… contributed.”

“Contributed?”

He finally turns, eyes gleaming. “Curated, if you prefer.”

“Seriously? This is some next-level playlist manipulation. That’s sacred ground, Masterchef.”

“Now you know how serious I am.”

I look back at the screen, lips twitching. He added Like Real People Do. Youth. Talk Too Much.

Not going to lie; I’m impressed—the man’s got range.

I try not to read into it.

Like, really , I do .

Buuuuut, I fail, and I don’t mind the giddiness that flutters in my belly one bit.

We stop at a small brick building near the edge of the city, tucked behind a cluster of trees and flowering shrubs. The sign reads Second Home Rescue , and it’s quieter than I expect.

“Why did we stop here?” I ask, tucking Samson deeper into me.

“Matheo’s sister works here. I asked her to sit Sammy for the day… I don’t like the idea of leaving him on his own at home.”

Oh! Be still my heart. This man is something else.

Auguste lifts Samson from my lap and tucks his leash into his pocket before he heads towards the shelter.

It takes him a while to return to the car. When he does, Auguste keeps looking back to the shelter, like a parent that’s just dropped off their child at school for the first time.

“You okay?” I ask, my hand hovering over his on the centre console.

It takes everything in me to pull it back and sandwich it between my thighs when Auguste looks up at me with a sort of lost expression.

As though he’s not sure what to do with himself now that Samson isn’t with him.

It’s so darn adorable that I sigh deeper into the leather seat, breathing in his scent as we hit the freeway again.

The rest of the drive is silent, with my playlist rolling in the background with his tracks interspersed between mine. I like this. It feels so normal. Too normal. The kind that you imagine when you think of two people together.

Except we’re not together, and we can’t be. Auguste’s life is in LA and my life is soon going to be in New Orleans. We are literally a whole country apart.

The second we pull into the Disneyland lot, nerves start buzzing under my skin.

It’s too early for nerves. Too early for butterflies. And way too early for the way my pulse kicks up when Auguste kills the engine and gets out like this is just another normal day.

He comes around to open my door before I can reach for the handle.

I step out, squinting up at the castle in the distance, the sounds of early morning park-goers already filling the air.

That’s when it hits me.

The players. The PR team. My dad .

They’re all going to be here.

As we start walking toward the entrance, I slow down, then stop entirely.

“Maybe I should go in first,” I say.

He squints down at me. “What?”

I gesture vaguely between us. “So no one sees us arriving together.”

His expression doesn’t change.

Just blank. Quiet. Unreadable.

“I mean… it might be weird,” I continue, fumbling the words now. “For me to show up with you. I’m supposed to be on assignment. This is your team. I don’t need anyone thinking there’s… a thing.”

His green eyes drag over my face. To my mouth. Back to my eyes.

“Isn’t there?”

My heart stutters.

“I—” I swallow. “That’s not the point.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.

“Just give me five minutes,” I mutter, turning quickly toward the gates.

Auguste doesn’t follow. But I feel him watching me. Tracking every step like it costs him not to reach out and pull me back.

And some part of me—the part Delilah would raise a glass to—likes it way too much.