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He knew I was inside the grocery store and let me follow him around.

I push the door open further and step into the dark garage. My pulse immediately jumps.

Holy shit. I'm inside Roman's house.

I close the door quietly behind me.

This is definitely breaking and entering. Except I didn't break anything. So technically it's just entering.

Besides, it was unlocked.

That sounds much better.

I smile. “Reconnaissance.”

The word makes everything feel official.

My heart beats like a drum as I stand by the door between the house and garage. All I have to do is open it and slip inside.

Except, what if he’s there?

And what if he really doesn’t know I’m here?

No, that can’t be right. He’s Roman. He wouldn’t leave a door unlocked by accident.

I turn the knob and slowly push the door open. No lights are on.

I step inside, then silently close the door, giving my eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness.

The house is quiet. Very quiet.

I start down the hallway to the kitchen, then peek inside. Clean counters. Stainless-steel appliances. Dark cabinets. Nothing on the refrigerator, not even a magnet.

I frown.

Who doesn't have anything on their refrigerator?

Mine is covered with takeout menus, pictures, a postcard Violet sent me even though she was only two hours away when she mailed it, and a magnet shaped like a penis Gracie gave me.

Roman has nothing.

I creep over and open the refrigerator. Milk. Eggs. Chicken. Cheese. Water. Vegetables. Even a six-pack of beer.

I close the door. My eyes land on the bananas on the counter. I smile, remembering stalking him through the grocery store in my disguise.

Wanting to know everything about him, I move to the cabinets. They aren’t much better. Plates, glasses, and a few mugs. All of them match.

I pick one up. It’s white. Plain. Boring.

I shake my head and then put it back. Roman needs better mugs. Something inappropriate.

Or pink. Definitely pink.

I make another mental note.

I leave the kitchen and creep into the living room. A sofa, chair, and coffee table face the television.

What stands out is how devoid it is of anything personal. No pictures, books, or stack of mail. No blanket tossed over the back of the couch. No shoes kicked beneath the table. Nothing that says someone actually spends time here.