Eric bends down and picks up my box. “How about I at least make my grandmother proud and carry this up to your apartment for you?”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.”
“I insist. But if it makes you feel better, I can give it to you once we get there. You don’t need to invite me inside if you don’t want to.”
“I’m not staying in my apartment right now. I’m staying with my boyfriend.”
“My grandmother really is out of the loop. Not only was she unaware of you having a boyfriend, but she also had no idea that you’re currently living with him. She needs to work on getting new informants.” He winks at me.
“Most definitely,” I say, laughing.
“Well, in that case, let me carry this to your vehicle.”
“That’s really okay.” The last thing I need is a stranger walking me to my car when someone wants me dead—even if it would save me time. “But thanks for offering.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Chloe, and you, too.” He pats Whiskey one more time on the head. “Maybe I’ll see you around if things don’t work out between you and your boyfriend.” That part’s directed at me.
“Maybe.” But probably not.
Or you could give him a chance. Just because Mom made poor choices when it came to men doesn’t mean you do, too.You madeonemistake. One mistake doesn’t make a pattern.
I ignore the voice in the back of my head. I’m not ready to test that theory out, especially while Landon is my fake boyfriend.
22
Chloe
The driveto Landon’s town house isn’t any quicker than the one to my apartment. Christmas music pipes through the speakers, and I sing along, not caring that I look like an idiot.
Whiskey sits on the front seat, his paws on the armrest under the window, watching the world drive by.
It’s dark by the time I park on the street outside Landon’s home. The town house isn’t much brighter, other than the faint light streaming through the gap in the closed living-room curtains from the lamp controlled by a timer. Which means Landon isn’t home yet. But it’s nice to know that I’m at least not entering a dark town house. Nor am I entering it alone.
Whiskey isn’t much protection against someone with a contract on my head—Landon would need a full-grown Rottweiler for that. But at least I’ve got someone to keep me company.
And I have the penknife I retrieved from my apartment.
I open the front door and enter the security code. Whiskey happily enters the house and heads toward the kitchen. “I’ll feed you in a minute,” I tell him. “I just have to get the rest of the stuff.”
I set the cardboard box on the floor and check my phone.
Landon: Running a little late. Will be home in an hour.
It was sent twenty minutes ago. I send him a text in reply.
Me: Okay. See you soon.
Forty-five minutes later—as I’m hanging up the imitation pine boughs on top of the kitchen cabinets—Thank you, Pinterest, for that suggestion—the front door clicks open.
And then…
“What the fuck?”
I peer over my shoulder, doing my best not to lose my balance on the stepladder. Landon is staring in disbelief at the decorations covering every available surface.
