The large English Mastiff wastes no time trotting over to me. I drop to my knees, placing the items in my hands on the floor, and give him all the love and attention he deserves.
“How’s my sweet boy?” I coo, hugging his thick, furry neck and peppering kisses all over his face. “Where’s that warden of yours, huh?”
“He’s right here.”
My head lifts at the deep voice and I find the man I came to see.
Gunnar stands just outside his office door, situated under the stairs that lead up to his apartment. He holds a grease-stained rag in his hands, using it to wipe the oil from them while wearing that signature lopsided grin of his.
His usual work coveralls are dropped low on his waist, revealing a dirty white muscle tank that shows off his fit physique and toned arms. Add in the ball cap that barely confines his thick, dark, messy hair, those honey-brown eyes, and that perfectly sculpted jaw with just the right amount of stubble, and there is no denying my best friend comes from some very good genes.
It’s why every woman in this town fights for his attention, only to never get it, at least not when I’m around. I’m not naive enough to think he never gives in to some of the temptation, but not in the way many hope for.
He has no interest in ever being in a relationship, something I have always been secretly thankful for because it means I never have to share him with anyone else. It’s just one more reason why this arrangement between us would work out great.
The thought has me grabbing my things from the floor and climbing to my feet. “Hey!” I finally greet him.
“Hey, yourself,” he returns, that lazy smirk still in place.
“Got time for lunch?” I lift the take-out bags in my hands, swaying them enticingly. “I brought your favorite.”
“I have time,” Mitch cuts in, prompting snickers from the others.
Gunnar shoots him a hard look before returning his gaze to mine. “I always have time for you, Elle, you know that.”
My heart warms at his response. It’s why, after all these years, he’s still my very best friend.
He nods toward his office. “Come on, we’ll eat in here.”
Before heading that way, I place one of the take-out bags down on the front counter and turn to the others. “This one’s for you guys.”
Cheers erupt through the garage as Mitch, Gavin, and James all make a mad dash for the food.
I jump out of the way before I get trampled, laughing as they fight over the bag.
“Y’all are a bunch of damn savages,” Ryland scolds. “What do you say to the girl?”
“Thanks, Ellie,” Gavin and James say in unison, both struggling to open their respective containers.
“Yeah, thanks, Ellie,” Mitch adds, his mouth already full of food. “You’re the best.”
I acknowledge their gratitude with a smile and wave, then make my way over to Gunnar, who waits for me outside his office, looking less than impressed by the scene behind me.
He allows Bear and me to enter first before following us in.
“I don’t know why you brought them food too,” he grumbles, annoyed. “They have their own damn lunch.”
“I know, but I didn’t want to leave anyone out,” I reply with a shrug. “I even brought something for my sweet Bear,” my voice softens into a coo as I glance down at the dog by my feet.
He acknowledges his name with a sharp bark.
Chuckling, I place the food and flower arrangement down on the desk and reach inside the white take-out bag, pulling out the brown-wrapped package I picked up from the butcher this morning.
The sight of it sends Bear into a frenzy. He barks several more times and dances around in excitement, already knowing what’s inside.
I hurry to unwrap the meaty smoked bone and then place it into his drooling mouth. “Here ya go, boy. Bon appetite.”
He prances over to his navy blue dog bed in the corner and begins chowing down.
Gunnar shakes his head at me.
“What?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
“You spoil the shit out of him, that’s what.”
“And you don’t?” I return, arching a brow.
He grunts, knowing he can’t deny it.
“Oh, don’t be such a grump. I have something for you too.” Grabbing the potted greenery off his desk, I hand it over with a smile. “A new creation just for you.”
He accepts the arrangement from me, inspecting it with a critical look. “There’s no pink,” he says, his brows furrowing. “You always use pink.”
“And you always say it’s ‘girly’,” I remind him. “So, I made it less girly this time.”
“They’re flowers, for christ’s sake. They’re supposed to be girly.”
I peer back at him, confused. “So, what are you saying? You want me to use pink?”
