48. Drew
DREW
I open my laptop.
Then close it.
Then open it again.
The screen stares back at me like it’s personally offended I haven’t done anything productive in the last ten minutes.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter. “I’m supposed to be working.”
Luna, curled into a fluffy ball beside my keyboard, lifts her head just enough to acknowledge me. Then goes back to sleep.
“Don’t judge me,” I say.
She flicks her tail.
That feels like judgment.
I lean back in my chair and drag a hand down my face.
Focus. You need to get some work done.
But my mind strays.
I straighten, crack my neck, and start typing.
I get through exactly three emails before my brain veers off track again.
Dammit. Stop thinking about her.
But I don’t.
“…This is a problem.”
Luna blinks.
“Not you,” I say quickly. “You’re fine.”
She yawns.
Rude.
I push back from the desk and stand, stretching my arms over my head. My muscles protest immediately.
“Yeah, okay,” I mutter. “Maybe getting assaulted by a tennis racket wasn’t my finest moment.”
Or the bush.
Or the rake.
Or the entire sequence of decisions that led me there.
I head toward the kitchen.
Coffee will fix this.
Or at least make it feel fixable.
Luna follows behind me like she’s supervising.
“This is your fault,” I tell her.
She meows.
“Don’t argue. You like her, too.”
She jumps onto the counter and sits.
I make a pot of coffee and take a cautious sip so I don’t burn my tongue.
Apparently, I can break into houses, fight bushes, and get assaulted by sporting equipment, but hot coffee is where I draw the line.
Also, I can’t stop thinking about a woman who may or may not be rearranging my entire life one casual conversation at a time.
The weirdest part?
Nothing feels wrong.
It should.
Every logical part of me insists it should.
But it doesn't.
I grab my phone and begin typing.
Me: How’s your morning?
I stare at the words.
That's what I came up with? After discovering a binder dedicated to me?
Apparently I've lost the ability to form complete thoughts.
I toss my phone onto the desk and lean back in my chair.
“I’m fine,” I say to absolutely no one. “I’m tired. And a rake hit me in the head.”
Then the typing bubbles appear.
My stomach tightens.
Violet: Are you okay?
Me: Yeah. Fine. I’m working.
I’m not fine.
Her response is immediate.
Violet: Of course you are.
I stare at her message.
Is that sarcasm?
It feels like she knows I’m not working. Like she knows I’m sitting here overthinking everything.
Which is ridiculous.
She can’t possibly know that.
Can she?
Then I remember the binder.
Okay.
That seems like a real possibility.
I look around the house. Everything shouldn’t feel normal, but somehow does.
I look back at Violet’s name on my phone.
The logical part of my brain has a hundred questions.
About the binder.
About the picture.
About everything she somehow knows about me.
Unfortunately, the rest of me only has one.
When do I get to see her again?