Stephen wasn’t altogether sure how he’d gotten home. The train, of course, but he didn’t remember anything of it. Good thing he hadn’t driven the car into the city.
And now closeted in his apartment, hunched over the dining room table, he glared at the lurid pink box and its gold embossed image of a windmill. Was it mocking him? Telling him he’d been tilting at windmills again, believing that he could find love?
His lips narrowed. Well, no sense letting it go to waste. He tore the lid off the box and jammed his fingers into the center of the perfect dessert. How offended Emmett would be at such savage table manners. Scooping up a fistful of velvety cream cheese, he tasted it. Oh, God, that was good. He might just eat the whole thing. No need to leave any for Emmett.
He closed his eyes a
