Taking off my shirt, I toss it on the floor, followed by my pants.
I slip beneath the covers, gathering her close, breathing in the floral scent of her shampoo. She sighs and snuggles deeper into me.
But sleep doesn’t come easily.
I spend too much time staring into the darkness. The feeling that something is looming on the horizon won’t leave.
42
IVY
My stomach churns with unease as I walk through the front doors of the aggressively cheerful grocery store. The fluorescent lights and shiny floors mock me. Pop music plays just loud enough to kill any real silence. It’s the kind of place where nothing bad is supposed to happen because everything is visible.
It’s hard to focus on what I need. I’m distracted by Sebastian’s demeanor. Something is wrong, but I don’t know what. I’ve studied him so well that I know his blood pressure normally runs 122 over 83. When he’s stuck inside his head, a deep crease forms between his eyebrows. He also gets unusually quiet.
I saw him check the locks on the doors and windows—twice—and make sure the mat by the back door was centered. He checks it morning and night. But this morning, he checked it three times.
I tried to get Sebastian’s attention to talk to him privately, but he was too distracted by Drew and Mr. Pickles’s morning antics.
The cat was curled up on the chair Drew normally sitsin, and he nearly sat on it. Mr. Pickles was not happy and clawed the hell out of him. Drew glared at him and told him to take his rabies-infested ass to another chair, which really ticked off our mangy cat. He waited until Drew was distracted by his phone before jumping on the table and spilling Drew’s coffee all over his lap.
I call it humorous chaos. Drew had other, colorful language for the behavior.
My driver waits outside, engine idling, while I move through the aisles with a basket hooked over my arm.
I turn the corner toward the produce section, already reaching for the basil, when I collide with someone hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
“Oh—” I gasp.
The basket slips from my arm and hits the floor with a loud thud, landing on its side. The contents spill—apples scatter across the floor. A tomato rolls away like it’s making a break for freedom. Something soft hits my shoe.
“Sorry,” a man mutters. His voice is low and rough. Scraped raw, like it’s been used too much or not enough.
I blink and look up.
He’s already crouching down, his hood pulled low, a dark sweatshirt hanging off him in a way that hides more than it reveals. I catch a glimpse of his jaw—sharp, unshaven—while he gathers produce with quick, efficient movements, his head down.
“No, it’s fine,” I say automatically, kneeling to help. “It was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
He hands me an apple, keeping his head down. His fingers brush mine.
I freeze as a cold chill rolls down my spine.
He doesn’t look at me when he stands. He smells faintly like cold air and something metallic underneath it.
Before I can say thank you, he’s already walking away.
That was weird.
I straighten slowly, scanning the contents of my basket. When I look up, he’s nowhere to be seen.
Almost like I imagined him.
A woman further down the aisle hums to herself as she picks out avocados. A kid whines about fruit snacks. The world keeps moving.
I exhale and shake my head.
Jesus, Ivy.It was an accident.
