Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Sami
I’m trying so hard not to look back over my shoulder that I almost walk into someone else.
Falling in insta-lust with the hottest man I’ve ever met wasn’t on my bingo card.
Unable to stop myself, I toss a look at the deli counter, and disappointment shears through me.
He’s gone.
“Sams?”
Blinking at the exasperated voice in my ear, I let out a strained laugh. “Sorry, Allen. I almost committed octogenariacide in the grocery store.”
“Octowhataside? Is that even a word?” Allen asks. “I know you’re the writer and I’m the lowly house sitter, but I’m dubious that’s a word.”
“You’re far from being the lowly anything, Al.” I smile, picturing my next-door neighbor. “For starters, you’re in my house because you’re tougher than me and not scared of anything.”
“Well, there is that,” Allen concedes with a laugh. Along with being the best next-door neighbor a girl could ask for, he’s also a math teacher in one of the roughest high schools in Sydney. Nothing fazes him.
“And no,” I continue, exiting the store onto the quiet dusk street, “it’s not a word. But with how close I just came to colliding with some poor old guy and his walking frame in Hartley Ridge’s only grocery store, it probably should be.”
“Did my call rattle you?” Allen asks. Worry laces his voice now. There’s a reason he’s house-sitting and I’m up in the wilderness mountains. The elephant in the room. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have led with another box turning up when you answered. It was empty.” He pauses. “They always are, right?”
My stomach knots. “Yeah.”
Every Friday for the last three months, someone has been leaving a gift-wrapped empty box at the front door of my home in Sydney. The wrapping paper is always black, the bow is always red. A small gift tag is always attached with the words “for you on Friday” printed in red. Comic Sans.
I don’t know who’s leaving them or why, but I wish they’d stop.
Sweeping a glance around me, I try to get my bearings.
I’ve been in Hartley Ridge for less than six hours.
I have no clue where anything is. Actually, that’s incorrect.
I know the location of the cozy cabin I’ve rented for a month.
It’s halfway up the side of a mountain called Talisman Peak, about fifteen minutes’ drive from the small village where the grocery store is.
There’s a pub and restaurant in the small hamlet, but locating them topped tomorrow’s to-do list. I’d intended to make fettuccini carbonara for dinner tonight until the whole no-bacon incident, but now…
An image of the guy at the deli counter pops into my head, and a little tingle ripples through me.
Tall, at least six foot five, faded jeans hugging sublime thighs, a blue T-shirt stretched over a chest just made for licking, sculpted muscles, stubble darkening a strong jaw…
Damn, he was hot. Older than me, for sure, but hot with a capital here-have-my-panties H.
“Are you sure you don’t think you should call the cops? Or maybe not be up there alone?” Allen asks, jerking me back to the sidewalk. “It’s more than a little weird. And it started the Friday after your book launch at the Sydney State Library. It could be a fan?”
“No,” I say with a sheepish grimace. Here I am thinking about Mr. Hot at the Deli while my neighbor worries about why I hightailed it to the mountains.
I’m just too freaked out to stay home and too convinced I’m being a drama queen to make any noise about it.
“Whoever it is will grow bored and move on. They probably think they’re being funny, what with my book titled Friday I’m In Love. ”
Allen laughs. “I still say that’s a weird title for a horror book, Sams.”
“And I still say you should read it so you can understand the title,” I return with my own laugh.
“Hell no.” He snorts. “I read Stephen King’s Pet Semetary when I was fourteen. Scarred me for life. I’ve seen the reviews Friday I’m In Love is getting, though. For such a sweet summer child, you seem to excel at writing messed-up, deranged nightmares. Not bad for your debut book.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment.” I grin.
“But honestly, I can finish the sequel up here in peace.” And I need to finish the sequel.
I have a contract, an advance, and a deadline, and the weekly boxes are giving me writer’s block.
“Thank you, again, for staying there and looking after Mr. Shakespeare.”
“Your axolotl misses you,” Allen says. “Stay as long as you need. If you want to FaceTime Mr. Shakespeare after dinner, let me know.”
“Allen, as a comedian, you make a great math teacher.”
He laughs. “I’m off. Exams to mark. Be safe, okay? And if anything weird happens up there…”
I’ll find Mr. Hot at the Deli, and he can protect me.
“I’ll be fine,” I insist.
“Enjoy dinner,” Allen instructs and ends the call.
Returning my phone to my bag, I cast a look around me. Enjoy dinner?
Without bacon, I can’t make fettuccini carbona. My comfort food. The meal my grandmother taught me to cook the night my parents died. Maybe, at least for tonight, I could find somewhere to eat in the village. Besides, I still have to unpack and set up my things in the cabin.
Because unpacking a laptop and one suitcase will take forever?
“Alright,” I murmur, squinting down the road into the darkening night. “This is a small town in regional Australia. Where’s the pub?”
Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll bump into someone I know. Although, the only person I know here is the man from the deli, and the word know is doing a lot of heavy lifting.
You’re here for a month. You might see him again?
Exactly. I’m here for a month. Not a relationship. What I need to do is eat dinner, return to the cabin, and get back to work.
Saturday I’m Deceased won’t write itself.