“Did my call rattle you?” Allen asks. Worry laces his voice now. There’s a reason he’s house-sitting and I’m up in the wilderness mountains. The elephant in the room. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have led with another box turning up when you answered. It was empty.” He pauses. “They always are, right?”
My stomach knots. “Yeah.”
Every Friday for the last three months, someone has been leaving a gift-wrapped empty box at the front door of my home in Sydney. The wrapping paper is always black, the bow is always red. A small gift tag is always attached with the words “for you on Friday” printed in red. Comic Sans.
I don’t know who’s leaving them or why, but I wish they’d stop.
Sweeping a glance around me, I try to get my bearings. I’ve been in Hartley Ridge for less than six hours. I have no clue where anything is. Actually, that’s incorrect. I know the location of the cozy cabin I’ve rented for a month. It’s halfway up the side of a mountain called Talisman Peak, about fifteen minutes’ drivefrom the small village where the grocery store is. There’s a pub and restaurant in the small hamlet, but locating them topped tomorrow’s to-do list. I’d intended to make fettuccini carbonara for dinner tonight until the whole no-bacon incident, but now…
An image of the guy at the deli counter pops into my head, and a little tingle ripples through me. Tall, at least six foot five, faded jeans hugging sublime thighs, a blue T-shirt stretched over a chest just made for licking, sculpted muscles, stubble darkening a strong jaw… Damn, he was hot. Older than me, for sure, but hot with a capital here-have-my-panties H.
“Are you sure you don’t think you should call the cops? Or maybe not be up there alone?” Allen asks, jerking me back to the sidewalk. “It’s more than a little weird.Andit started the Friday after your book launch at the Sydney State Library. It could be a fan?”
“No,” I say with a sheepish grimace. Here I am thinking about Mr. Hot at the Deli while my neighbor worries about why I hightailed it to the mountains. I’m just too freaked out to stay home and too convinced I’m being a drama queen to make any noise about it. “Whoever it is will grow bored and move on. They probably think they’re being funny, what with my book titledFriday I’m In Love.”
Allen laughs. “I still say that’s a weird title for a horror book, Sams.”
“And I still say you should read it so you can understand the title,” I return with my own laugh.
“Hell no.” He snorts. “I read Stephen King’sPet Semetarywhen I was fourteen. Scarred me for life. I’ve seen the reviewsFriday I’m In Loveis getting, though. For such a sweet summer child, you seem to excel at writing messed-up, deranged nightmares. Not bad for your debut book.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment.” I grin. “But honestly, I can finish the sequel up here in peace.” And Ineedto finish thesequel. I have a contract, an advance, and a deadline, and the weekly boxes are giving me writer’s block. “Thank you, again, for staying there and looking after Mr. Shakespeare.”
“Your axolotl misses you,” Allen says. “Stay as long as you need. If you want to FaceTime Mr. Shakespeare after dinner, let me know.”
“Allen, as a comedian, you make a great math teacher.”
He laughs. “I’m off. Exams to mark. Be safe, okay? And if anything weird happens up there…”
I’ll find Mr. Hot at the Deli, andhecan protect me.
“I’ll be fine,” I insist.
“Enjoy dinner,” Allen instructs and ends the call.
Returning my phone to my bag, I cast a look around me. Enjoy dinner?
Without bacon, I can’t make fettuccini carbona. My comfort food. The meal my grandmother taught me to cook the night my parents died. Maybe, at least for tonight, I could find somewhere to eat in the village. Besides, I still have to unpack and set up my things in the cabin.
Because unpacking a laptop and one suitcase will take forever?
“Alright,” I murmur, squinting down the road into the darkening night. “This is a small town in regional Australia. Where’s the pub?”
Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll bump into someone I know. Although, the only person I know here is the man from the deli, and the wordknowis doing a lot of heavy lifting.
You’re here for a month. You might see him again?
Exactly. I’m here for amonth. Not a relationship. What I need to do is eat dinner, return to the cabin, and get back to work.
Saturday I’m Deceasedwon’t write itself.
Chapter Three
Gibbo
It didn’t take long for the team to make it to the pub after I sent the text saying that’s where I was going. I wasn’t prepared for Hudson to arrive with a cake. Or a Ziplock bag full of candles. Age jokes never get old when you’re the oldest on the team.
Now, sitting at our usual table, cake half demolished, candles still in their bag, I think I’m enjoying myself. Although, to be fair, I could be wrong.
