Page 112 of Prime Time Romance

No.

You can’t dream up entire days in the type of vivid detail that leaves memories imprinted on your brain forever.

There must be another explanation.

My phone.

I scramble to my feet and search the living room until I remember I lost my phone at the bar.

I find my laptop, and as the home screen appears, I have to stare at the date in the corner for a moment to fully process.

It’s June 22.

I’ve been gone for a week.

My eyes land on the coffee table, where the wedge of white cake is still sitting uneaten on a plate. The candle with its singed black wick still in it.

It happened. All of it.

“Josh!” I call, making my way down the hall to the door of his room. “Josh, are you there?”

I bring my fist to the door, but as my hand hits the paint, the door swings open with the force of my knock.

His room is dark.

And empty.

I glance around for clues. His dresser drawers are pulled open, as is his bedside table. It’s as if he left in a hurry.

Then it clicks.

“The auction.”

Relief washes over me. He made it back too. He’s on his way up north. Wait! No, the auction would have been yesterday.

With no phone to call him with, I sit back down on the couch, resigning myself to waiting until he returns home. The Netflix still of Carson’s Cove is still on my television screen.

I last exactly thirty-two seconds before I decide I hate this plan.

I can’t wait for him to come to me. I need to go to him.

I get changed as fast as humanly possible.

I skip running a brush through my hair and return to my laptop and Google. Josh grew up in Orillia, Ontario, and the bar’s name is Buddy’s. The town is small, and I find an old Facebook page with the address.

I fling open my front door with the heart of a woman ready to get her man, but I halt at the sight of a male body blocking my path.

Holding a bakery box.

“Fuck. No.” I point a very stern finger at Sheldon. “Did you hear what I just did? I swore at you. And I will think about you every time a profanity leaves my lips from now until the end of time.”

Sheldon holds up the box. It’s red. The words Tim Hortons Doughnuts are written in familiar script across the front. “This is a peace offering. There are two Boston creams, a honey cruller, and a maple dip. No funny business, I promise.”

He moves to step inside, but I block him. “Forgive me if I refrain. What exactly are you doing here? Reminding me that I broke your perfect Carson’s Cove?”

He pauses before answering. “Maybe. Or maybe you fixed it?” He holds up the doughnuts again. “I came to explain. Can I have five minutes?” He opens the box, pulls out a Boston cream, and takes a bite. “See. My intentions are noble.”

I step aside slowly. “You have two. I have somewhere to be.”