I never thought a cat could keep me from totally losing my shit, but this one...it’s like she knows just what I need. Maybe because she was starving when I found her, soaked to the skin from a summer rainstorm. Or because I held her almost constantly for the first two days trying to keep her warm and get her to eat.
Whatever made her this way, I’m grateful as fuck. After a few minutes—and more than one wince as I really need to trim her nails—my chest loosens slightly and I think I’m strong enough to make it to the kitchen where I keep a stash of my anxiety medication.
“You’ll look so good in this shirt, Quint.”
“Your wardrobe needs some serious help.”
“I am not moving all of those frumpy old man jeans into my place. You’re getting new ones.”
Flashbacks hit me with every step. All the times Alec put me down under the guise of trying to help me. The backhanded compliments. The gentle reproach. Thesuggestionsthat sounded encouraging, but really, were like death by a thousand cuts. Or a thousand criticisms.
I’m on autopilot as I pour some kibble into Clementine’s bowl, and setting it down on the floor makes my back spasm. My appetite? Completely gone.
Sorting through the rest of my mail, I don’t find anything else concerning. A notice to file my corporation’s annual report, my quarterly tax notice, and the ValPack coupons sent to every single household in Seattle.
The catalog is theonlyitem addressed to me. I want to shred it. To tear out each page, crumple them up—as violently as I can—and burn them. But though I might find a sliver of comfort doing so, it won’t answer the most important question.
How did I get on their mailing list with this address? All of Quinton Silver’s mail goes to a PO Box in Dallas. One my brother has checked every few weeks. If there’s anything important, he packages it up and sends it to me here, but he always uses my company’s name. Never mine.
I wish I could call Connor. Or...anyone. But my brother never answers his phone. He claims all I have to do is text him and he’ll get back to me the moment he’s free, but I don’t want to bother him for something so…minor.
So I send him an email, then call Rodeo Vibe Apparel and ask them to remove me from their mailing list immediately.
After that, I give up on work for the day, stretch out in my massage chair with Clementine curled up next to me, and pop in my earbuds. My therapist keeps suggesting meditation, and though I feel like a failure at it, I try at least once a week.
As the peaceful music surrounds me and the heat starts to loosen my tight muscles, I will myself to relax.
You’re safe. You have a kick-ass security system with cameras everywhere, and Alec’s two thousand miles away.
I wish I believed my own self-talk. Because I don’t know how else Rodeo Vibe would have gotten my address. But why now? And more importantly...what is my psychopathic ex going to do next?
* * *
An hour later,I’m only slightly calmer, but at least my pain level is back to normal, so I spend the rest of the work day perfecting Zen Oasis. Fixing the last remaining bugs requires me to actually play the game, and that alone helps tamp down my anxiety.
Until the doorbell rings a little after six. Is the Universe just fucking with me? Or does she just have a sick sense of humor?
Pulling out my phone, I check the video feed, and my entire body flushes with heat.
Graham. Standing on my porch with a paper bag in one hand and an ice cream cone in the other. I’m mesmerized when he takes a lick, and my pants get a little tighter. No. A lot tighter. I shouldn’t answer. He’s a distraction. And if Alec is after me again, anything that stops me from focusing on my own safety is a huge risk.
But when he stares directly at the camera and smiles, any hope of ignoring him vanishes. So I tap the intercom button.
“What—” my voice isn’t doing me any favors, so I clear my throat and try again. “What are you doing here?”
He takes another lick from the cone and shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know. But there’s this place up the street, Sue’s Scoops? Most days, there’s a line out the door and around the corner. But they have an app, and you can order ahead.” He lifts the cone slightly. “Thin Mint Chip. It’s basically crushed up Girl Scout cookies with dark chocolate chips. I brought you some.”
By this time, I’m at the front door, and my heart’s pounding. Too fast and too hard. I don’t do this. Don’t talk to people face to face. Don’t willingly invite anyone inside.
Resting my forehead against the wood, I pause, eyes on the screen in my hand.
It’s just ice cream.
After you told him to run away.
He came back. With ice cream.
“Quinton?” Uncertainty pinches Graham’s brows, creating this sexy little furrow. “There are two pints in here. I’ll leave them on the porch.”
