Ideas swarm through my head. I’ll return his sweatshirt. I’ll casually pop over and hand it to him.
Not today. I need to smell it some more.
And wash it before returning it.
It’s the polite thing to do.
I get up from the table and move closer to the kitchen window. I stare at the path, just to confirm he’s not out there.
But why would he be?
My eyes glaze over, and a thrill skitters through me as I imagine showing up and giving him his shirt back.
It’s normal to feel this excited about returning it. I mean, the guy saved me from a creep. The polite thing to do would be give him his shirt back.
It’s not stalking. Not at all.
It’s… curiosity.
And gratitude.
And maybe a little fate.
I smile to myself, already planning it out. The route, the timing, the reason for “accidentally” running into Sebastian.
Okay, so maybe… I’m in a little bit of trouble.
The kind I don’t want to be rescued from.
3
IVY
By nine-thirty Monday morning, I’ve taken two walks past Sebastian’s house.
Not because I’m stalking. I’m just scoping things out to see if he’s around so I can return his sweatshirt.
He’s not outside getting his mail. Or returning from a run. Or standing on his porch looking broody and mysterious.
Every time I think about heading home, the nagging thought returns. What if he steps outside?
So I turn around and do another lap.
On my fourth time past his house, I pause at the end of his driveway, clutching his sweatshirt like a peace offering.
Okay. Enough.
I march up to his front door and knock.
No answer.
I wait a full thirty seconds—because I have manners—and knock again.
Still nothing.
He’s probably at work. Or doing important, intenseSebastian things. Like brooding into his beverage of choice. Or reorganizing his sock drawer by thread count.
I finally retreat, my dignity intact.
