Page 14 of The Girlfriend's Guide to Dating a Biker
3. The knowledge that Karen’s “Why Our Dev Lead Should Date a Biker” spreadsheet now has COMMENTS and FORMULAS
But mostly, I really didn’t need to open my apartment door this morning (in my embarrassing hangover clothes, hair that looks like I stuck my finger in a power point, and sunglasses I refuse to take off indoors) to find Savage leaning against my doorframe with coffee. The same man who terrified half The Valley last night was playing coffee delivery guy with a smirk that should be banned before noon on hangover days.
(Side note: Mrs Primrose definitely saw him arrive because I heard her “watering” her plastic plants while whispering (most likely into her phone) about “suspicious morning rendezvous involving caffeinated beverages.” The Wine Club’s latest theory probably involves international coffee cartels now.)
Him: “Rough morning, darlin’?”
Me: makes sound that might have been words in another dimension
Him: smirks “Thought you might need this.”
Then he handed me a coffee that was:
a) Still hot
b) Exactly how I like it (oat milk, two sugars, extra shot)
c) From my favourite café that’s nowhere near our building
d) In direct violation of my “try to maintain dignity” morning plan
Which means he:
a) Noticed which café I get my coffee from
b) Paid attention to my order
c) Went out of his way to get it
d) All of the above and I’m not emotionally equipped to handle this information
e) Has rendered me incapable of creating logical lists because WHAT IS HAPPENING
“Wasn’t actually sure you’d be up,” he said, while I was having an existential crisis over coffee preferences.
Look, I’d love to tell you I said something witty. Or flirty. Or, you know, coherent. But what came out was: “Did Karen email you her spreadsheet?”
He laughed. It wasn’t the dangerous laugh from last night that made drunk guys rethink their life choices. This was something warmer. Still deadly, but in a completely different way.
“Her spreadsheet?”
“Nobody needs to know about the spreadsheet,” I said quickly, waving my hand between us as if I could wave the dumbest thing I’ve ever said away. “The spreadsheet doesn’t exist. I’m going to go drink this coffee and delete Karen’s Excel privileges.”
Still saying dumb things.
Wishing the floor would just swallow me.
Savage didn’t say a word. He just stood there, watching me with those blue eyes I’ve started seeing in my dreams. And because my brain-to-mouth filter completely malfunctions when he looks at me like that, what tumbled out in my desperation to fill the silence was: “That’s two times now you’ve rescued me.”
He raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Two?”
“The Valley last night. And now, coffee when I’m dying.”
The words were out before my brain could catch up with my mouth. Wait. Had he actually rescued me last night? Or had I just watched him rescue someone else while having inappropriate thoughts about how hot it was and wondering what it would be like if he rescued me?
“I mean, not that you actually rescued me last night. You were helping the bartender, and I was just there, having thoughts—” Oh god, stop talking. “Not those kinds of thoughts—” Abort. Abort. “I’m going to stop speaking now.”
“Darlin’,” his voice dropped to that low rumble that made me forget about my hangover entirely, “you’re not the only one keeping score.”
