CHAPTER SIX
KELLAN
The thud of the delivery truck has me at the door in seconds. I scoop up the packages, excitement flaring in my chest.
I look up and I catch the delivery driver wrestling with the old gate on his way out. It groans, one hinge barely clinging. The guy gives me a sheepish shrug before forcing it shut. I raise a hand in acknowledgment. That damn gate.
I carry everything inside, setting the boxes down on the table. Black tactical gear. Gloves.The gas mask. The goggles. Piece by piece, I lay it out. It looks damn close to Kade Cross.
I imagine her seeing me like this, dressed as the man she calls sexy. A shiver runs through me.
The only problem is I have no idea when the party starts. No details, nothing.
So, I’ll do what I have to do. I’ll wait. I’ll sit outside her place until she leaves, then follow.
Taking this whole Kade Cross thing a little too literally.
I glance at my phone—6:33 p.m. my stomach twists. With the nerves, I realize I haven’t eaten today.
I strip down and pull on the black tactical pants, the long-sleeved fitted shirt, boots—everything but the mask and goggles.
Keys in hand, I head to the garage. My truck waits, spotless as always. I hate eating in it; hell, I rarely even drive it. But I can’t riskmissing her leaving. And she is too much of lady to ride in my work truck. That is if I can get her to come home with me.
By the time I pull onto the road, my hunger claws at me. Del Taco’s glowing sign calls me, cheap and fast.
I swing into the drive-thru, order a couple of burritos, and tuck the bag on the seat beside me. The smell fills the cab, warm and greasy.
I park a little down the street from Opal’s apartment, and I dig into the Del Taco bag. The burrito is hot in my hand, grease bleeding through the wrapper, and I bite into it.
I’m just a man in his truck enjoying his food, nothing more. Not a ridiculously obsessed man stalking his future wife.
Time ticks by slowly. My eyes bounce between the glowing numbers on the dash and the door to her building, every passing minute dragging.
Finally, movement.
The redhead—the same woman that was with Opal at Target steps out of a white car stopped in the street. She’s carrying a backpack and two coffees. Her hair catching in the streetlights as she heads to the apartment entrance.
It won't be long now. I glance at the time again 8:08.
I scroll through my phone until I land on an audiobook—something dark and spooky for the Halloween spirit. The narrator’s gravelly voice fills the cab, but my eyes never leave the apartment door.
One hand rests on the steering wheel, fingers tapping in rhythm with every tense beat of the story.
Any second now. She’ll step out.
I watch the streets from my truck, kids darting past in oversized costumes. Tiny super-heroes and princesses clutching candy buckets, parents trailing behind, laughing. The sight should make me smile, part of me does.
Mostly, it hits me with a hollow ache. I miss that. Being a kid, running through the neighborhood without a care. I miss my parents, my family.
A car pulls in a few spaces ahead of me.
The apartment door swings open.
And they step outside.
Holy hell.
Opal.
