Her trembling migrated from her knees to her thighs. She slid to the rug before noticing that his Red Sox hat was still on the floor. She picked up the worn brim and ran her finger over the logo as a furtive movement caught the corner of her eye.
Nibbles stared from his fish bowl. His meditative, albeit bug-eyed expression, appeared all-knowing, as if he were a miniature aquatic sensei.
“I didn’t mean to laugh,” she snapped.
Nibbles glared.
“Come on, I’m not an asshole.” Her voice raised a pitch. “You see me. You know me better than anyone.”
Sadly, this might be true. With her two best friends in loving, stable, supportive relationships, Margot spent more and more time alone.
“Whatever.” She wrinkled her nose and plopped Patch’s hat on her head. Maybe it was her imagination, but she swore she could feel residual body heat in the cap’s cotton.
She willed her heart to quit pounding. What an idiot she was being. It was good he bolted. Great even. She didn’t need to invite more drama into her life.
There was a knock at the door, soft, but definite. And her answering stomach flip proved her last thoughts to be a big fat lie.
Because she was glad that he had returned. For here was a chance for redemption, to put this right. She’d be honest. Physical responses happen. It wasn’t personal. She wouldn’t make fun of him. She needed this gig to work.
She walked to the door, turning the baseball cap backward for good measure. Maybe a little comedy would diffuse what would be a tense situation.
“Hey.” She flung open the door.
“Hey yourself, Hot Pants.”
The smile slid off her face as she regarded Stefan. Her ex leaned in the doorway, his left dimple putting in an appearance. He knew it was a selling point and made sure to use it to maximum effect.
“What are you doing here?”
He raked his fingers through his tight, black curls. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“You live in Littleton.” Not exactly her hood.
“I had a special delivery to make.” He pulled a bouquet of roses from behind his back. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Pretty.” She bit the corner of her lip, fighting the urge to recoil in disgust. “But I can’t accept them.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?” A hard edge crept into his smile. “You never hit me back last night. What’s up, you had plans?”
“As a matter of fact, I had a date.” She’d just leave out the part where it was with herself.
“Not cool.” Stefan dropped the roses to his side. “This hot-and-cold shit sucks. I’m getting sick of your games.”
“Games?” Her laugh was genuine. “Give me a break! You and I aren’t a thing. It’s over. Dead and buried. Never going to happen.” She swallowed back the last part of the phrase, the automatic “I’m sorry” part that she normally tacked onto rejections.
She wasn’t going to apologize for not being interested anymore.
“Red Sox.” His caramel-colored eyes flew to the top of her head, his gaze shuttering. “Whose hat is that?”
“None of your business.” She didn’t like the way he was watching her. Or the fact he could switch on a dime from fun and flirty to cold and calculating. He was bigger than her, and meaner. Plus he knew how to hurt people for a living.
She had a gut feeling about this guy. Something was off and she didn’t want to find out what. All she knew was that she didn’t feel safe. His muscle and masculine intensity wasn’t sexy anymore.
It was scary.
A chill snaked down her spine. She’d experienced this sudden fear a few times lately, while walking alone, the sense of danger, an unsettling sensation of being watched. But she had never had that feeling in her own cozy home. Not once.
Not until right now.
