Page 8 of Chasing The Goal
“Peach,” he said proudly, then added, “and blueberry. She believes in options and cans her own fruit in the summer so she can make pie year round.”
I pressed the button for my floor, shaking my head with a grin. “Okay but seriously… Jaymie?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not stalking me, are you?”
He froze, one foot slightly in front of the other, glasses slipping low on his nose. “What?”
“I mean, showing up here? Same building? Right as I get home?” I gave him a sideways glance. “It’s strange. You sure this isn’t a calculated move to charm your way into extra PT brownie points?”
“I—what? No! I didn’t know you lived here!” he said, horrified. His voice cracked slightly. “I’m not—God, I swear I’m not a creep.”
I laughed. “Relax, Prescott. I’m kidding, a little”
He pushed his glasses up his nose, flustered in a way that made something in my stomach do a little flip. “Okay, well, just to clarify for the record—I’ve lived here since last season. Tenth floor.” He pushes the corresponding button and the elevator starts to shift upwards.
My eyebrows lifted. “No kidding?”
“What floor are you on?”
“Eighth. I moved in this summer when I started interviewing for the Hellblades. Even if I didn't get the job, I still wanted to be in Chicago.”
We both blinked at each other.
“No way,” he said, shifting the bags again. “We’ve lived in the same building this whole time?”
“Apparently.”
“Huh.”
“Huh,” I echoed, fighting the urge to smile too hard.
For a moment, we just stood there. The elevator humming quietly around us. The scent of garlic and tomato sauce wafting from his bags, mingling with the clean citrus of my post-workout deodorant. We weren’t touching. Weren’t even standing that close. But somehow, the air between us felt… charged.
“I mean,” he said, breaking the silence, “if Iwasstalking you, this would be a pretty bad strategy. Grocery bags and all.”
“Depends on the food,” I said, pretending to inspect one of the Tupperware containers. “What’s in that one?”
He grinned. “Stuffed shells.”
My stomach growled. Traitor.
“Well, now you’re just showing off.”
Jaymie hesitated for a second, then nudged one of the bags in my direction. “Okay, so hear me out, dinner at my place? As a thank-you for helping me not die this morning. And maybe as a soft bribe to keep being gentle during my sessions.”
I gave him a look. “You want to feed me in exchange for professional leniency?”
“Not feed you,” he said quickly. “I mean, yes, food. But not like a... not like a transactional—I’m not trying to buy your kindness. That sounded so much better in my head.”
“You’re spiraling.”
“I’maware,” he groan-muttered, cheeks tinged pink.
I leaned back against the elevator wall, arms crossed. “So let me get this straight. You want me to come upstairs—”
He nodded cautiously.
