Page 30 of Drop the Mitts

“Correct. But what happened? You were on board with helping me set this whole thing up.”

“Yeah. Before I saw how pissed she and Jenna were.”

André dropped a hand on Country’s shoulder. “I’m not going to make this worse for you.”

“You didn’t promise.”

André squeezed. “Sometimes I make it worse without knowing it, so it’s better to underpromise and overdeliver.”

Country wasn’t close to being convinced. “Why don’t you text her?”

André blew out a breath. “Hey, if you want to explain why she has to spend time texting about a missing coat and make her feel bad about taking it?—”

“Fine. But I will pull a Sean and punch you out on the ice if you do anything asinine.” Country pulled out his phone and swiped up.

Chapter

Twelve

André

André had never lost a fight.Sure, he’d been beaten a few times—once so bad he woke up in a trainer’s room with his left eye swollen shut and the distinct memory of a guy named Korchinski treating his face like a speed bag—but he’d never lost.

He wasn’t about to start now.

Not that Grace was some cup to be won, but he couldn’t leave things the way they were between them. Half the time she was biting his head off and the other half she was showing him her bra. He needed to up that second portion to at least eighty.

André parked on the curb and grabbed the paper bag sitting in the passenger seat. He would ask for his coat. But he’d also drop off the best tacos in the city. Their spiced meat, fresh tortillas, and house-made salsa had been known to make grown men weep. Probably because Alberta had such shit Mexican food, it restored their faith in their fellow countrymen, but that was beside the point.

He walked up the drive, climbed the steps, and rang the doorbell. The camera eye stared at him as he shifted his weight. He was suddenly self-conscious. Was he standing too close? Wrong angle?

After a couple of minutes with no answer from Grace, André frowned, glancing at the Volkswagen parked in the driveway. She was home. A light was on inside, a faint glow filtering from some room at the back of the house through the front window.

So she was either avoiding him—which, yeah, fair—or didn’t hear the doorbell. Except Grace didn’t seem like a person to ignore her notifications. He also highly doubted that she hadn’t connected this camera to her WiFi network.

Grace was a woman who liked things in order. That was what she wanted, and she’d curated her life to get exactly that. But André couldn’t help but wonder, after seeing her so worked up and anxious Monday morning, if it was what she needed?

André smirked, rocking back on his heels. She could see him, and she was making him wait.

Fine.

He dropped onto the front porch steps, stretching his legs out like he had all the time in the world. She could sit inside, watching him like he was some overly persistent Uber Eats driver, but he wasn’t leaving.

He had nowhere to be, and he had tacos. Maybe if he ate one?—

“What are you doing here?” Grace stood in the doorway, barefoot, her yoga pants hugging the curve in her calf and lower thigh before disappearing under her oversized sweatshirt.

André ’s throat went dry. He’d never seen her like this. So casual. So . . . normal. Even if she didn’t quite pull off “relaxed.”

“André. You’re sitting on my porch.” Her voice was flat, unimpressed.

He shrugged and stood, grabbing the bag. “You didn’t answer your door.”

Her arms crossed. “You didn’t take that as a sign?”

“Could’ve meant a lot of things.” He stood, easily stepping into her space, letting her feel him there. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. Maybe you were busy.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Or maybe I saw you on the camera and decided I wasn’t in the mood for whatever this is.” She gestured at the bag, but also toward all of him generally.

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