But then I remembered my parcel.
Panic set in, and I broke into a jog as I spotted my bus approaching.
I tapped my card and slid into a seat, pulling out my phone to check the parcel tracking app.
“No,” I whispered.
Delivered to neighbour A. Graves at number 58.
I dialled Melissa’s number, already fuming—silently, of course.
“Hallo…” she croaked.
“Melissa, you dizzy cow! You missed my parcel.”
“Ugh. Sorry, I had a late night,” she groaned.
I sighed.
She was a mess, but somehow still managed to pull decent grades on her coursework.
There was no point yelling. I didn’t have the energy.
“I’m on my way,” I muttered.
She grunted and hung up.
The company promised discreet packaging. There was no way he could know what was in the parcel.
Deep breaths, Callie.
I pulled out my 39p can of energy drink and knocked it back before my stop arrived. Yeah. I could do this. Even if my heart was pumping like I’d just been caught with porn on the family computer.
I pressed the bell and stood by the doors, empty can in hand. As soon as the bus stopped, I jumped off, tossed the can into the bin, and marched toward our street.
But as I approached his gate, my pace slowed. His hedges needed a trim. That wasn’t like him. He usually kept everything neat.
I opened the iron gate—it screeched—and my grip tightened on my backpack strap as I made my way up the path.
He wasn’t my first crush, but he was definitely the most inappropriate. More intense than the one I’d had on my high school English teacher. Alistair Graves was every red flag I could think of compared to Mr Simonds.
I wiped my sweaty palms down my denim skirt and rang the bell.
Then I just stood there—staring straight into the camera.
Chapter 4
Alistair
It sat there.
That brown box.
Innocent-looking. Ordinary.
I should’ve left it in the hallway, but no—I brought it into my office because it had Callie Shaw’s name on it.
That alone had been enough to justify bending my own rules—just a little.
