The only exceptions are the sweetbutts. That's a different arrangement, and everyone understands what it is.
And Marigold.
When I finally get her under me—and I will—she won't be an exception to any rule. She'll be the reason the rules stop mattering. I'll keep her there until she forgets what air tastes like without me in it.
Chapter Eleven
Ishufflethroughtheenvelopes as I head back to the house, thumbing each one with a practiced flick.
Bill.
Bill.
Junk.
More junk.
Blah. Boring. The postal service owes me a little excitement, just once.
Oh.Wait.
A plain white envelope sits between my fingers. My name is printed on the front. No return address.
Interesting. Very interesting.
The club and the diner are my only real connections, so this mystery sender comes from a pretty shallow pool. My brain leaps into detective mode, the kind of eager energy it usually saves for things that will probably end badly.
What if it's Tomcat? What if he figured out I needed space and decided to do something about it? What if there's an apology folded up in here, something thoughtful and specific and…
I'm already hurrying inside before I finish the thought, tossing the rest of the mail onto the coffee table and dropping onto the couch. I slide my finger under the flap,not even properly sealed, rude,and lift it open.
A picture slides out.
Tomcat's face looks up at me. He's laughing at something, caught mid-moment between Munch and Giblet, completely unaware of the camera. Unguarded. I drag my fingertip across his face and feel my chest do that traitorous squeezing thing it does when I'm not paying close enough attention to stop it.
I haven't seen him since the family dinner. He's called multiple times. And every single time I've watched his name light up my screen and sent him straight to voicemail, because I know exactly what will happen the second I hear his voice. I'll fold. Completely and without dignity.
He hurt me. With words he doesn't even know he aimed at me, but still.
Pathetic. Some obsessed chick.
I was so sure he would love that gift. I'd thought about it, chosen it carefully, imagined his face when he saw it. Instead, those two words took up residence in my skull and have been paying rent there ever since.
Looks like I've landed my own personal stalker. Only mine prefers ugly words over anything remotely thrilling.
Who sent this?
I love this picture. Whoever sent it deserves a thank you and maybe a medal.
Turning it over, anticipation prickles beneath my skin.
The chill moves down my spine before my brain fully processes what I'm reading.
Stay away from him.
My throat does a slow convulsion. I read it again. Block print, deliberate, no personality bleeding through the letters. Could be anyone. Man, woman, ghost, disgruntled houseplant. Nothing about it gives me anything to work with.
My first instinct is Damon. He’s a connoisseur of the mind-fuck before he moves in for the kill. But Tomcat? With the trail of discarded women he leaves in his wake, this could be from any scorned heart in Coral Cay.
