I look down at what I’m wearing.
Crud.
I’m wearing an old sweat suit from throwing javelin in high school that now fits a bit snug. I’m even wearing mismatched socks.
“Hang on!” I yell as I begin unlocking and unlatching all the gadgets we’ve installed to keep us safe from burglars, murderers, door-to-door roofers—which makes zero sense living in an apartment building—and the neighbor Mal went on a date withonceand thinks that means she’sthe one.
But apparently, I’m not going to let it keep Evan Michaels out. I’m going to let this man into my personal space, where he does not belong.
It’s a whole operation, a symphony of clinks, clicks, and a code or two.
I glance down at my mismatched socks—one has a reindeer on it. It’s Rudolph, and his little red nose is mocking me because it’s May.
I look back at my fingers fumbling through the locks. Almost there. Just two more and a firm yank to the left. Or is it right?
I finally get it all unlocked, take a deep breath, and then fling open the door.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Evan smiles at me widely with all his perfect teeth. I feel his eyes as he traces down my body. I groan inwardly as his eyebrows rise when his gaze lands on my socks.
“Good to see you, too,” he says, his eyes back to looking into mine.
“How did you get my address?” I ask, trying to ignore the smile that has melted into smugness on his face.
“I have my methods,” he replies.
“You have Melanie,” I retort, assuming Melanie had to have given Evan my information.
“Well, she did say we needed to see more of each other before this book tour. I thought I’d drop by,” he says. “I brought you this, but it’s probably cold now with how long it took you to open that door.”
Then he extends a coffee cup that has a sleeve from Molly Mae’s, the coffee shop located a block down the street.
“Vanilla latte,” he adds.
I look at the coffee cup suspiciously before taking it from him.
“Is it laced with some kind of flavorless poison?” I ask.
“I write murders. I don’t commit them,” he states.
“But maybe you’d make an exception just this once,” I add.
He shrugs his shoulders as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Maybe.”
I sniff at the coffee cup.
“Oh, I’d make sure it’s odorless, too,” he says. “But poison wouldn’t be my first choice. Too unreliable. Personally? I’d go with a staged accident. Something simple, like a fall down the stairs.” His gaze shifts to the stairwell to his left. “Maybe a loose rug at the top. No one suspects foul play when gravity’s the culprit.”
I glance down at my welcome mat that saysThis house runs on plot twists and patchouli.Mal had it custom made two years ago.
A fanfiction writer murdered by the author she adores definitely would be a plot twist.
He follows my eyes and grins. “Relax. That rug’s too small, and I’d at least wait until you’re holding something heavier than coffee. I have to make it a little more believable.”
“Comforting,” I murmur, taking a sip of the lukewarm latte.
At least if I were to die, my taste buds will be happy.
