My make-believe world has him begging on his knees for mercy, spilling his guts on why he’s such a dirtbag while I stand over him spitting fiery wrath like some scorned goddess of wrath.
“Come on angel,” I mock in an exaggerated husky voice as I stomp down the sidewalk. “I know I’m an absolute jerk. But please, let me kiss your feet as I beg you to love me again!”
“You heartless dirtbag,” I loudly proclaim to my imaginary groveling Connor. “Take your BS apologies and shove them right up your—oh, excuse me, sir!”
I quickly sidestep the alarmed businessman staring at me mid-expletive. Great, now I’m the lady ranting to herself on the street.
In his family’s defense, all three of them—Killian, his mom, and Clodagh—got my number and messaged me to apologize. Which was sweet. It’s nice to know that at least some members of the Quinn clan have a shred of human decency.
But every single time that stupid phone beeped, my traitorous heart skipped a beat too, thinking it was him.
“Fancy delivery for you,” Grace calls out distractedly as I enter the apartment, her voice muffled by the sounds of her video game.
Despite my better judgment, my heart makes a hopeful leap. Connor trying to make amends?
As if. It’s probably just some package for our neighbors who use our place as their personal post box.
I find Grace sprawled on the couch in herBig Bang Theorypj’s and try not to look disapprovingly at her. It’s past noon, Sunday or not.
But then I spot the delivery—a pricy-looking blue box, my name elegantly scrawled across it in gold cursive. No address.
My stomach flip flops uncomfortably. I don’t know how to feel.
It only took him two whole fucking days. And now he’s trying to make up for it with some flashy apology gift? As if throwing money at me will fix everything. The sheer arrogance of it makes my blood boil. He can’t just buy my forgiveness and expect everything to be okay. He should be here groveling in person, begging for a chance to make it right.
I manage to keep my emotions under wraps, sneaking a glance at Grace who’s too engrossed in her video game to notice anything awry.
The box looks so expensive, I’m almost intimidated to open it. But it doesn’t matter what it is.
“Who dropped this off?” I ask casually, wondering if Connor hand-delivered it.
“Some guy,” she responds without tearing her eyes away from the screen, her fingers flying over the controller.
Super helpful, sis. Glad we cleared that up.
Better open alone in case it’s something wildly inappropriate like racy lingerie. I swear, if he goes for cheeky charm instead of begging for mercy, I’ll personally shove that smug gift right up his inconsiderate ass.
I hate the hopeful spark in my chest as I retreat to my room. No purchase on earth could smooth over his blunder.
My heart’s going a mile a minute as I wrestle with the annoyingly stubborn lid.
And then, I see it.
A . . . sweater?
I blink, my brow furrowing as I lift the soft knit from its tissue paper nest. It’s cute, sure, but hardly saysPlease forgive me for being the world’s biggest asshole.
Hold up . . .
Confusion washes over me. My smile locks in place, icy and unmoving.
Could Connor have nailed my style so precisely he picked something identical to what I already own?
I shake my head, smile fading. No, something feels off. Flipping the sweater over, I notice a small stain on the hem.
My stomach drops.
This ismysweater. The one I left at his place.
