Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Mina
Ihaven’t heard from Leo in almost twenty-four hours, and I am absolutely shitting myself over it.
I’m twisted up. In knots. Burned out. Stressed. Anxious. On the verge of a mental breakdown.
He told me to stay. For a long moment, I thought that was a fantastic idea because my dreams were coming true. Leo was finally recognizing me, and he was going to welcome me into his open arms because he wants me too.
And then fear set in.
He knows.
I should be happy he wasn’t scared or weirded out. Hell, I should be ecstatic that he knew what I’ve been up to. Instead, I can barely breathe from the anxiety.
I’m worried over what he meant. Concerned about how he knew. Fearful that he’s planning to get me to confess and then call the cops. Sickened that he might be playing me too.
It’s illogical to think all of these things when Leo hasn’t given me a reason to, but this is all becoming too real too soon.
I gnaw on my lip and pull the blankets around me, double-checking Mom’s spare phone to make sure Leo really hasn’t contacted me. Now I’m anxious for an entirely different reason. What if he changed his mind because of how I acted?
Or maybe—just maybe—he wanted me to stick around to “break up with me,” so to speak.
Again, he’s never given me a reason to believe that’s his plan, but it’s not like I’m a catch. He has so many better options out there, and I’m just me, and he . . . might have a girlfriend.
I flop onto my back and groan. I’m not about to be the other woman. So maybe he was planning on telling me to disappear from his life forever . . . after ordering me breakfast and giving me the latest phone that’s expensive enough to make my eyes water.
The anxiety stopped me from taking it.
But it didn’t stop me from bringing home more of his clothes. As a token and a reminder of what could’ve been the last time I went to his house.
My phone chimes beside me.
Sabrina: How are you doing? God, I can’t imagine how scared you must be. I’m here if you need anything! Love you lots x
I shove my face into the pillow and silently scream. She reached out first. She checks up on me when I don’t reply all day.
I’m a horrible, awful, terrible person. She’s being the sweetest, kindest human being, checking up on me, offering to bring me food, and giving me the option to sleep in her spare bedroom—and I’m out here stalking and hiding a “relationship” with her brother from her.
And still she was the one who felt guilty and embarrassed that Leo crashed our girl time.
I need to come clean to her—we need to tell her that we “know each other.” Ugh.
I shoot off a reply that doesn’t make me feel like an asshole until about three seconds after I send it because guilt really is a relentless bastard.
The sound of Joyce’s bedroom door opening pulls me out of my misery. Is it bad that I’m glad she and Ben are on an “off” period so she’s spending more time at home? And I’m hoping they stay off. Yep, I’m a piece of crap.
I’m a bad friend to Joyce, and I’m a worse friend to Sabrina. Mom was right. My friends would be better off without me.
Taking a deep breath, I count to ten to muster up the courage and willpower to pull myself out of bed and face the remnants of my ruined apartment.
Joyce and I spent all day cleaning the house yesterday, taking turns battling with the police and insurance. The former sent someone around to dust for prints, and the latter is being plainly difficult, saying they want more information from the police.
We’re going to need to dip into our savings to try to make this place livable again. Or, in my case, I need to buy new electronics as soon as possible because my release is in a matter of weeks, and I feel far from prepared for it.
I can already hear her out in the kitchen doing Lord knows what. She’s not usually awake at this time of the morning unless I accidentally cause enough of a ruckus to wake her up.
The smell of bacon wafts up my nose the moment I open the door, and that is my first warning sign.
Joyce doesn’t eat breakfast.
The second warning is that she’s standing a few feet away from me, gawking at the same thing I am.
“Good, you’re up.” Leo’s eyes meet mine.
He’s in my kitchen.
Leo is in my kitchen.
And he’s walking toward me.
I can’t breathe, let alone move as he lowers his head to plant a kiss on my forehead. “Morning, baby.”
Goosebumps cover my skin, but I can’t feel anything besides shock. “Uhh.”
He moves back behind the stove to flip something. “You have a part missing on your dishwasher. I just ordered it, so it should be here this afternoon. I’ll install it tonight.”
My jaw drops. The man I’m stalking knows where I live.
“Thanks . . .” My eyes slide to Joyce, who’s still gawking at the man in our kitchen, and I follow her line of sight to the living area. He’s cleaned our apartment. “What—”
“Also noticed a bit of rust on this.” He holds up a pan that he takes out of the trash. “The store said the replacement will arrive tomorrow between nine and eleven.”
I rub my eyes. I’m imagining things. “What are you . . .” Doing in my house? Why do you know where I live? And how the fuck did you get in?
“Making breakfast,” he answers before I can finish, speaking and moving around my place with the confidence of someone who owns it.
It dawns on me then that the man I’m stalking is in my house, making me breakfast.
“I’ve made your usual one.”
What?
He nods at a plate with a single slice of bread, hash browns, and dry scrambled eggs—the only form of eggs I’ll willingly consume—then places a couple strips of bacon on it. My ideal breakfast.
“I have two in for you, too, Joyce.”
“He knows my name,” Joyce whispers under her breath.
He knows where we fucking live, Joyce.
She clears her throat, looking between me and Leo in bewilderment. “So, you two . . .”
“Are official. Yes.” Leo winks at me, and my stomach does both an excited and frightened flip because what?
Forty-eight hours ago, I was having panic attacks over the fact that he might have a girlfriend.
“Don’t give Mina a hard time about it. We agreed it would be best to keep it a secret for a little bit,” he tells her when she looks at me, then he points to the mug on the bench. “Your medication’s there, and your tea should be ready.”
How does he know what medication I take? Or that I always take it with green tea first thing in the morning?
Something he said hits me.
No. No. There’s no way he has cameras in my house too. These all must be lucky guesses.
Butterflies explode in my stomach, and for a moment, I’m tired of pretending I’m not so off-kilter that my cheeks are heating at the idea that he might be watching me too. That he’s been standing in the shadows, following my every move, studying me just as I’ve studied him.
Out of everything, I’m scared that this is all a lie, and I’ve interpreted something wrong along the way.
I’ll admit, seeing him move around my kitchen is doing even more unholy things to my insides, but it’s hard to appreciate the sight when I have a million questions.
I hesitate before inching forward and taking a seat at the kitchen island. The last thing I need is for Joyce to ask more questions and start getting suspicious, because right now, the only person allowed to lose their mind is me.
Leo pushes our plates toward us. “Eat up.” He turns and starts washing the dishes.
The silence hangs heavy and deafening, neither one of us able to do more than hold the cutlery and exchange shocked glances.
Joyce mouths something that looks like, “What the actual hell?”
To that, I respond with raised shoulders and a panicked, “I don’t fucking know.”
My current course of behavior is going to leave me no choice but to explain that I’ve been lying to her about my relationship with Leo, and that I haven’t been going to a café to work, but have been going on excursions to break into his house.
I’m not sure what game he’s trying to play right now, or if this is some twisted ploy to lead me on before shoving me to the side. None of this is making any sense to me, and half my brain is expecting the worst; the other is frolicking happily through the meadows because my dream is coming true.
The former is a much louder thought.
“So—”
“What time are you leaving?” I ask before Joyce can finish her sentence.
Leo pauses, glancing over his shoulder. The vein in his forehead tics, and the tense air grows thorns. “I’ll fly out in an hour, but I won’t be playing.”
“Are you injured?” I carefully inspect him from behind the counter. I didn’t notice a limp, and there’s no visible strapping or brace. “You weren’t yesterday,” I add to sell the whole girlfriend-boyfriend thing that we apparently are.
“Something like that.” His voice is tight.
Joyce makes an appreciative sound. “This is really good,” she says around a mouthful.
An unexpected surge of jealousy has me seeing green, and I try to tamp it down by shoving food into my mouth. Every cell is telling me to one-up her or remind her that he doesn’t know she doesn’t like bread—but he knows exactly how I like mine.
I take an aggressive bite down on my lightly toasted slice. I’m being irrational. I’m going to blame it on the fact that Leo is standing four feet away, and I can’t ask him anything because she’s here.
We eat in silence and let Leo clean up—something I feel guilty about but can’t do anything about because I’m too busy simmering and choking on the tense air.
“Er, well, it was nice to meet you, Leo,” Joyce says, creeping out of her chair and dumping her unfinished plate beside the sink. “I need to pick up a spare TV from my uncle. Thank you for breakfast.”
Leo grunts, and I hate that I get a little more upset when he throws out her uneaten food and washes her plate while she runs around to get ready. Once he’s done, he leans against the counter, crosses his arms, and watches me.