This is it.
We’re here, driving through the gates that I now realize must have required a code to open.
This isn’t like any storage unit I’ve ever seen.
In fact, we’re not at a storage facility at all.
For some reason, I’ve found myself pulling into the circle driveway of an enormous, exquisite house.
CHAPTER 2
EVANGELINE
Idon’t know what to do.
Where am I? Why am I here? And what the hell is happening right now?
I’ve called Luca four times.
I’ve texted him, too.
And just like every other time I’ve really needed him over the last two years, he’s not available.
At least the guy’s consistent.
“Are there stairs inside?” One of the movers grunts, shuffling toward what appears to be an enormous garage behind the main house. He’s younger than the driver, with a prominent nose and bushy brows. Every few seconds, he snorts like he’s going to hawk a loogie, the grotesque sound making me shudder. There’s a grease stain down the center of his white T-shirt. My stomach roils as I realize there’s a very good chance that stain will transfer to my grandma’s couch.
The couch where I found my ex-boyfriend fucking another woman with her face shoved against the scratchy fabric two weeks ago. That event left a stain, too.
I’d been worrying over the random brown and orange stains that appeared out of nowhere for weeks. Turns out the mystery stains weren’t actually mysteries—they were some other girl’s contour.
Hands trembling, I wrap my arms around my stomach and grimace. “I don’t know.”
I’ve never been here. I don’t even know where we are. I just followedthe GPS. It took nearly an hour to drive out this far. According to the address Luca provided, we’re in Lakeway.
The moving guy shifts his grip on his side of the couch, grunting again. “There’s an extra charge for stairs. Just so you know.”
Of course there is.
I pull out my phone and take a picture of the garage in front of me, then send the image to the man responsible for this nightmare.
Ev
Where the hell am I right now?
The message goes through, first showingdeliveredbefore changing toread.
I wait, lips pressed together so tightly they ache.
It takes all of thirty seconds for me to accept that he’s going to leave me on read.
Maybe he thinks keeping read receipts on two weeks after the decimation of our relationship is a power move, or maybe he’s just that dumb.
Spite sizzles in my veins, making my heart gallop as heat crawls up my neck.
Teeth gritted, I pound out another message.
Ev
