The Lineup(50)

He nods solemnly. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “What can I do?”

I smile to myself, understanding how amazing having Walker Rockwell on board will be. Not only is it going to boost The Lineup, but I also think it will boost his image as well. A win-win for everyone. This man needs someone who gets him. If it helps him heal? Even better.





Are you home?

I stare at the text message, confused. What stranger has my number and is asking if I’m home?

Standing outside my building, sweat dripping down the front of my chest, my shirt tucked into the back of my shorts, I jog in place, trying to calm my already racing heart from my eight-mile run—suck my ass, Carson.

Contemplating what I should do, I slowly text back.

Jason: Not to be a complete asshole . . . but who is this?

I hit send and the dots appear right away.

I slow down to a sidestep, allowing my muscles to cool down as the text comes through.

Unknown: Sorry, it’s Dottie.

Oh . . . how did she get my number?

Duh, that was a stupid question. Emory. I send her a text back.

Jason: Glad you’re not a murderer. I’m headed up right now.

Dottie: Okay, I’m outside the apartment.

I take off toward the elevator wondering what she wants. I’m still surprised how shocked she was by my apology. I don’t know what kind of men she’s been hanging out with, but I was raised to believe that even if both parties were to blame for a disastrous night, you own up to it and apologize. It’s called being a man. Didn’t mean I wasn’t disappointed that she hadn’t wanted to talk more about us being friends though. Am I interested in Dottie? Hell, yeah. I’m putting that weird behavior down to whatever’s stressing her at work, and not a direct hit to me. But, still . . . I had begun hoping we could be more than friends. I like what I see in Dottie Domico, strange behavior aside.

When the elevator reaches my floor, I walk out the doors and spot Dottie immediately. She’s holding a wrapped present in her hand and seems to be struggling with it. I quickly walk up to her and help her with the box.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

She shakes out her arms. “I got you something.”

I hold up the box. “This is for me?”

“Yeah. Go ahead, open it.”

“I love presents, especially if they’re wrapped.” Like a kid on Christmas, I tear open the wrapping paper and pop open the box. I push the tissue paper to the side to reveal a brand-new Williams Sonoma baking dish with ingredients to make enchiladas.

Fucking thoughtful shit right there.

“The chicken and cheese are in that mini cooler. Not sure if this is how you make them, but I thought it’s a start. Sorry about ruining your dinner.”

“Hey, I told you it was cool. You didn’t have to do this.”

She points to the box. “There are new oven mitts in there too.”

I push a few things to the side only to find two pink and white mitts at the bottom. I pull them out and slip them on my hands.

“Wow, these are comfortable.”

“They’re the same ones I have in my apartment. They’re top of the line. Unfortunately, it was the only color they had but if anyone could rock them, it’s you.”

When I look up at her, I see a spark of vulnerability. Dottie rarely shows her emotions. She doesn’t flinch when things go wrong, nor does she tend to smile when things go right, but in this moment, it’s as if she’s lowered the shield and is letting me see a small, well-hidden piece of her.

“I’m really sorry about the other night. I’m hoping the invitation to be friends is still open.”

I smile at her. “Hell yeah.”

“Okay, good.” She backs away. “I have some dry cleaning to pick up and some errands to run. I’ll see you around.”

“Thanks again.” I hold the box up to her and she nods, giving me a quick once-over with her eyes. A small blush creeps over her cheeks.

“You’re welcome.”

With a small wave, she walks back to the elevators, leaving me in a state of wonderment.

Friends sounds nice. Maybe if we’re friends, she’ll start to melt that icicle surface of hers.





Dottie: I won’t be back to the apartment until really late. Do you think you can water the plants for me? I promise it’s the only time I’ll ask.

Jason: Yeah, sure. Anything special I need to do?

Dottie: Instructions are on the counter.

Jason: Holy shit, why are things laminated in here?

Dottie: She’s intense about her plants. Thanks, I owe you.

Jason: Nah, you don’t owe me anything. What are friends for?

Dottie: Thank you.





Dottie: Are you still awake?

I look at the clock, ten thirty. Is she really just getting back to the apartment?

Jason: Yup. What’s up?

Dottie: I’m outside your apartment. Open the door.

Jason: One second, I sleep naked.

I slip out of bed, throw some clothes on—not bothering with underwear because why at this point—and open the door to my apartment where Dottie is standing on the other side, holding a Dairy Queen Blizzard in each of her hands.

“Do you like ice cream?” she asks.