Page 82 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

I wrench myself free and look at him fully.

Taking him in from head to toe shatters the last of my doubts. I spent months resenting that height as he lorded it over me at our mailbox, and I spent Friday night with that big body wrapped around me like I was the most precious thing in the world.

I’d know him anywhere, and even though it took me far too long, I know him now.

“Take your mask off,” I say hoarsely.

When he doesn’t move, my voice hardens into a whip crack. “Take it off, Hugo.”

He sucks in a breath, and after a brief hesitation, he does what I ask, slowly pulling the black knit fabric over his head to reveal his face.

The face of my neighbor. My nerdy, infuriating, impossible neighbor.

It’s really him. He’s not wearing his glasses, and his hair’s mussed and a little sweaty, but it’s him. I brought him an ice pack for that bruise on his forehead. When he fell asleep, I kissed the edge of that cut.

My vision’s going dark around the edges, which explains why I don’t fight it when Hugo reaches down and pulls my own mask off. I shiver as cool air caresses every new section of skin he reveals: my chin, my lips, my flushed cheeks, my damp forehead. By the time he tugs it free of my messy braids, I feel completely exposed. Hell, I’ve felt less vulnerable standing completely naked in front of a new sex partner than I do right now with Hugo’s eyes devouring my face.

I’m sure I look just as shell-shocked as he does as we stare at each other and try to form words.

When we finally do, we have the same question.

“What the fuck?” I breathe.

“What the fuck?” Hugo breathes back.

“What the fuck?” demands a third voice.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Hugo

Rue is Morticia.

Morticia is Rue.

And a sandy-haired stranger wearing a fanny pack is standing in Timms’s living room gawking at both of us.

Either I’ve developed a concussion symptom all the literature missed, or we are well and truly fucked.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Rue

In theory, not a single thing in the universe should be able to pull my eyes away from Hugo.

The neighbor I was falling for. The killer I couldn’t resist.

Same man.

But I have to say, the arrival of a guy in skinny jeans and a red Hawaiian print shirt has successfully stolen my focus.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” says the stranger in a high, nervous voice.

If his sudden appearance, his wispy combover, and massively freckled face weren’t startling enough, he’s accompanied by a small dog on a long, purple leash.

“Did you hear me?” The man’s voice pitches even higher. “Why are you here? Who sent you?”

He tosses the bundle of mail under his arm onto the couch and slips the leash loop over his wrist so he can fumble with the zipper on his fanny pack.