“Good. I’d do it again,” I growled.

“I won’t touch your precious paints, ya big baby. Go bring the girl some food.”

Instead of arguing any further with my knuckleheaded best friend, I looped the plastic bag around my fingers and headed across the darkened fields toward Julia’s place. I knocked at her front door and waited. She had to know it was me, which was probably why she took her sweet time and let me stand outside in the freezing cold for so long. Maybe she thought, if she didn’t answer, I’d go away.

That wasn’t happening.

“Julia, come on. I know you’re in there. Don’t make me break your door down.” I continued knocking. “I brought you food.”

“Food?” she asked softly from behind the door.

I wondered how long she’d been standing there, debating on whether or not to open it for me.

“Yeah. From the restaurant. Ginny boxed it up.”

The lock on the door unlatched with a loud clunking sound, and I held my breath. Her face appeared first, followed by a see-through pink robe that barely covered her tiny boy shorts and tank top. She had already changed from our date and was apparently ready for bed.

She glanced down at her bare legs before grabbing the robe and holding it tight around her middle. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

I wanted to grab her and pull her hard against me. I wanted to claim her lips for my own. I wanted to tell her to always fucking expect me, day or night or anytime I damn well pleased. But I didn’t. Instead, I held out the bag of food and waited for her to either take it and try to slam the door in my face or invite me inside. When she opened the door wider, allowing me in, I took it as a good sign.

“Ginny would kill me if I didn’t bring you yours,” I said with a laugh, and she smiled. “And you know she’d ask.”

“We can’t have that,” she said, reaching for the bag of food before disappearing into the kitchen where I noticed the flowers I’d brought her earlier were still proudly on display.

I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if she had tossed them in the garbage the second she got home.

“About earlier,” I started to say, but she put up a hand to stop me.

“No. James, it’s not you. I mean”—she paused for half a breath—“it is you. But can I ask you something?”

It wasn’t what I’d expected, her wanting to ask me a question, but I nodded. “Of course.”

“What did you mean about my family winning?” She walked past me and moved toward the couch, her food plated. Once she got comfortable, I watched her take a not-so-tentative bite. “God, this is good.”