“Those are shopping bags,” the smart-ass said.
I glared.
“Saw that.”
He didn’t look up. “And I figured you’d feel better if you had some fresh clothes that didn’t smell like the guy you refuse to leave the apartment with.”
I flinched. It felt like he’d delivered a physical blow.
“I thought I knew your size well enough after . . .” He cleared his throat. “Don’t worry, I used a personal shopper, didn’t leave my name, and told them to deliver everything to Barry the doorman. If anything, they’ll assume he has a thing for women’s athleisure.”
I peeked into the first bag and found a pair of cute leggings that were one of my expensive guilty pleasures he couldn’t have known about, along with a loose Adidas hoodie that I would have picked out for myself, a pair of multicolored Gucci sneakers, BTS socks, which made me smile, and a comfy sports bra. The next bag actually held a garment bag. Frowning, I pulled it out. It was a dress.
Julian went completely still.
I unzipped the garment bag. The dress was black, would hit midshin, and had feathers wrapped around the middle like a belt that then dangled down the front of the dress. It was absolutely gorgeous. “This is . . . beautiful!”
He walked around the counter and took the dress out of my hands. “Well, you should be able to find someplace to wear it, right?”
I frowned. “The yoga pants I get, the dress I’m thankful for but a little confused about.”
“We should eat.”
“Julian—”
“It’s not a big deal, money is just money, you know that.”
“Yeah, but that isn’t just a dress,” I stated plainly, while the bacon made my mouth water.
Julian slid a takeout container toward me and zipped the dress back inside its bag. “I couldn’t help it.”
“What do you mean you couldn’t help it?”
The corners of his mouth twitched like he was going to smile. “The personal shopper sent me a few links of things to look at because I wanted to make sure you’d like the color, and this dress popped up—probably because she was trying to get a bigger commission—and I instantly saw you in it, your hair piled on top of your head, or maybe just falling across your shoulders, and the more I’m talking the more stupid I probably sound, but you had to have it, and I had to buy it.”
I smiled wide. “Julian, you just bought me a three-thousand-dollar dress because I had to have it. I think you may be the best”—I almost said boyfriend, where did that come from?—“the best friend I’ve ever had.”
He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Don’t read into it. I’m still a horrible person, remember?”
“A horrible person who has good taste in Prada.” I winked. “Thank you, by the way, for last night.”
He sobered. “It was a pleasure.”
I gulped and stared at his mouth. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Well . . .” He handed me a plastic fork. “First you eat some eggs, then some bacon, go take a shower, put on your clothes, and we’ll write some more of the book.”
“About tonight—”
“Like I said, don’t worry about it.” His smile was tense. “I keep forgetting, which is stupid, because I’m not forgetful at all. I just want you with me.”
His words pierced my heart.
I wondered if he realized that he was perfect.
That any girl would murder me to be in my position.
“Thank you for breakfast,” I said softly.
He poured me some orange juice. “Welcome.”
“You keep waking me up with your staring,” Noah said to me a few nights before his eyes closed forever. “I can hear your heavy breathing.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not heavy breathing all over you.”
He started inhaling and exhaling like he was trying to pass out. “Oh sorry, I was just trying to give you an example.”
I slugged him lightly in the shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, you know, it’s three a.m., my girlfriend’s staring at me like she’s going to kill me before the cancer can, my everything hurts, I’m thirsty, my hair, which was my best feature, by the way, is completely gone, and I’m thinking about shaving my brows in the morning, you?”
I gaped. “How can you be so calm?”
“Keaton.” He grabbed my hand. “What other choice do I really have?”
“Um, you could yell at how unfair it is, scream, punch a pillow, and take a razor to the middle of your doctor’s head. I don’t know!”
He let out a low chuckle. “You’re scary, you know that? Why would I take out my anger on the doc trying to save me?”
“Because he isn’t.” I gulped. “Saving you, that is.”
“But he’s trying,” Noah pointed out. “And that’s all that matters.”
No, it wasn’t. But I kept silent.
“Look, my attitude, whether happy or sad, doesn’t affect my outcome. I could rage for days and it wouldn’t heal the cancer, would it? Or I could choose to be happy and optimistic and spend the minutes I have making the world a better place. Complaining’s like a drug. It only makes you feel better when you take the hit, but once the high’s gone, you need more and more until all you are is a grumpy crab in search of treasure.”