Mitz melts like a liquid in my arms, her little white paws stretching toward my face like she wants to bop me for being hung up on that gorgeous, toxic asshole.
If I were her, I’d be over my bullshit too.
“What do I do?”
She blinks at me with those terrifyingly intelligent eyes. I can almost hear her say, “How the fuck am I supposed to know, Cretin?”
My head tips back to the couch cushion.
“Maybe he’ll get bored,” I muse. Mitz smacks my chin. She obviously doesn’t agree.
Footsteps echo from the hall.
I sit up straight.
Mitz lurches from my arms, tail pointing to the ceiling as she trots to the door to sniff at the threshold.
Something rustles.
The footsteps retreat.
I'm not sure how much time passes while I sit and stare at the door.
Maybe Ma ordered me something online. Or maybe the delivery driver dropped someone’s package off at the wrong apartment.
Yeah, it has to be one of those.
Because anything else…
I haul my ass off the floor and creep to the peephole.
The hallway is empty.
A shaky breath slips from my lips.
With excruciating slowness, I unlock and pull the door open.
On my welcome mat sits a little brown bag and an iced coffee.
My heart is in my throat.
I snatch the cryptic delivery and slam the door, triple-checking the lock. I should order a camera. And a security system. A gun sounds like a good investment. You know what? Why not just hire a fucking bodyguard while I’m at it?
Dropping everything on the counter like it’s contaminated— it very well may be— I notice a piece of paper taped to the bag.
Mitz hops up to examine it, her happy little meow like a thunderclap in the silent kitchen.
I rip the note off, rolling my eyes at her. “It’s probably a receipt.”
It’s not.
I recognize the indents of familiar jagged print.
I’m fucking trembling and I can’t tell if it’s from anger or something else. I don’t want to read it but my fingers have minds of their own, unfolding it.
The words blur.
My Sunshine,
