But I don’t really feel like fighting it.
I know who I am. And I’m a lot.
My scattered attention span. My attempts at baking that I know are nowhere near as good as my mom’s. My ultra-curvy body that I have no intention of changing.
All my relationships have been surface only. Fun while they lasted but nothing special.
My parents raised me to have good self-esteem. And I mostly do. But a part of me has just assumed I’d be one of those single forever women. And I was okay with that. I accepted it.
I look around at the other screens, wondering if he can see into my bedroom.
My core muscles tighten just thinking about it.
Could he see me touching myself?
Would he have sat here, gripping that big dick of his, jerking off while he watched?
My eyes bounce around as I look for my bedroom window, but I don’t see a good view of it.
I move my attention back to my living room and yelp.
Because Hans is there.
Inside my house.
CHAPTER 65
Hans
I cross Cassandra’s living room and flip the deadbolt on her front door.
Assuming she’s watching and not disobeying by leaving my safe room, I stop in front of the picture window and hold up my hand with my fingers spread, letting her know I’ll be back in five minutes.
Then I turn and head back toward the back of her house.
The man outside is most certainly dead.
My pretty little Butterfly shot him straight through the Adam’s apple.
I believe it was an accident, but it’s still a damn good shot.
Even though I should be leaving, I move into the kitchen. There’s something in here for me.
On the counter, next to the stove with the tray of burned cookies, is a Post-it note. Just like all the other ones stacked in my nightstand. And I know she was going to give it to me.
I read the words.
Charred Sweet Corn Cookies.
“Ah, Christ.” I shake my head. “Why, Butterfly?”
I nudge one, and it slides across the pan. At least they aren’t stuck.
It feels dry, and when I pick it up, little pieces fall off. But I’ll take my cookies crumbly over wet, like the last batch.
Opening wide, I shove the whole thing into my mouth.
My throat closes involuntarily, the intense campfire taste overwhelming my senses. But I chew.
Needing a little help, I step to the sink and turn on the tap. I bend and put my mouth under the stream and gulp some water.
Then I shove another whole cookie into my mouth.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Not wanting to dirty one of Cassandra’s containers, and not willing to leave them behind, I stack the cookies to make them easy to carry.
I can hold eight in my hand, but she made a full dozen.
I work to swallow the burned corn, then I cram two more cookies in.
I’ve tasted Cassandra at the source. I don’t need to settle for her awful baking anymore. But that doesn’t matter. If anyone so much as thought about eating what she made for me, I’d slice their stomach out of their body.
I duck my mouth back under the faucet.
The water helps to dissolve the mashed-up cookies in my mouth, and I’m finally able to get them down.
With my stack of eight cookies in one hand, I stride back to the front door and scoop up a pair of Cassandra’s tennis shoes. It’s her favorite pair. The ones she always wears when she’s leaving the house for errands, so I know they’re comfortable.
I hesitate for a split second as I consider bringing them to my nose, but then I remember that she might be watching through the window, so I shove them under my arm instead.
I’ve already shown her too much of my hand with the whole surveillance thing. I don’t need to add shoe sniffer to the list.
Flipping off the backyard light, I exit out the back door.
Not having camera angles in her backyard was clearly a fucking rookie mistake, but I utilize that now so Cassandra can’t see me use my own set of keys to lock up her house.
Though, again, the fact that she’s currently sitting in my safe room, looking at all the live feeds I have of her house, has probably tipped her off to the fact that I’ve invaded her privacy.
Are you obsessed with me?
My feet are silent in the grass as I circle around the back of her house in complete darkness, having memorized every inch of her property.
Yeah, Cassandra Lynn Cantrell. I’m obsessed with you.
Getting to her driveway, I jog the distance to my house.
When I first checked out what happened, I circled through the woods. Because I needed to know if the man was alone or if he was part of a force trying to hit my location—and Cassandra just happened to hear the wrong thing at the wrong time.
But since it appears as though the man was by himself, now it’s about speed. Because I doubt this is about Cassandra. I’m certain this man was coming to confirm my location.
I jump up the steps to my front door and use my free hand to unlock it.
Once inside, I go straight to the kitchen.
It takes me seconds to snag a Ziploc bag and shove the cookies in, then cross the house to my room, put the Post-it on the stack with the others, pull two backpacks out of my closet, shove the cookies into one, then head back downstairs.
CHAPTER 66
Cassie
The moment Hans appears on the screen showing the rest of the basement, I jump up from the chair and rush to the door.
I pull it open just as Hans opens the outer door. And I still at the sight of him.
His hair is still loose, drier now and slightly wavy, and he has a backpack hiked over each shoulder.
With the brighter basement lights behind him, he has an almost otherworldly look.
His eyes move down my body.
My look is less otherworldly and more I stole your sweatshirt.
He lowers his eyes to my hands and the half-eaten bag of Skittles I’m holding.
Oh, right, I also stole his candy.
Hans doesn’t give me time to step back. He hooks his hand around the back of my neck and slams his mouth to mine, sliding his tongue between my lips.
He groans.
Like groans.
The fingers on my neck flex, and he cups the back of my head with his other hand.
He’s only touching me above the shoulders, but it feels like he’s consuming me.
I dig my hands into his firm sides.
He licks into me. “Fuck.” He pulls me closer. “Goddamn Skittles.” His mouth consumes mine. “Fucking seductress.”
His grip on me tightens, then he pulls back.
“We gotta go.”
I nod. Then come back into the moment. “Wait, go where?”
Hans swings one of the backpacks off his shoulder and pulls my favorite tennis shoes out of a side pocket.
I automatically drop them to the floor and start to shove my feet into them.
As soon as my second heel slips into the shoe, Hans grabs my hand and pulls me out of the strange surveillance room.