How’s the house?
I greet the tiny text with a sad smile. It’s Leo. Again. It’s been weeks of him reaching out by flowers and candy and text. I’m grateful he hasn’t called. The last thing I need is his growly voice melting my defenses again. I haven’t replied, but he still manages to keep tabs on me. I smile at the text. He knows about the house.
He’s also been holding onto Mr. Whiskers and texted me an image of the two of them titled, My Hostage. Trinity assured me she’d send it back, all while letting it slip that Mr. Whiskers miraculously turns up everywhere Leo is—like his office and his car, and even in front of that cross-stitched pillow of his childhood dog she made him. I secretly love that they’re together.
Mr. Whiskers has returned to his original home—the D’Angelo estate—and Leo has a memento to remember me by.
“Last box,” Aunt Grace announces triumphantly, meaning she’s finally unpacked the last wardrobe box.
I look around the closet you could practically park a jet in. “Plenty of room for all the athleisure and tracksuits you could shake a stick at,” I tease.
“Challenge accepted.” Aunt Grace flaunts a gold tracksuit with dazzling stripes down each leg, and two daisies stitched on her butt. She plucks an extra bright, ombre pink-and-fuchsia one from her closet and holds it up to me. “I can’t imagine how we managed to snag a rental like this.”
I find creative ways to avoid answering her unspoken questions each time she doesn’t ask. “Yes, amazing.”
“Who did you say owns it again?”
“An acquaintance of Sin’s.” It’s the truth. A mortal enemy acquaintance of Sin’s, but she doesn’t need to know that. The last thing we need is her blood pressure skyrocketing and this beautiful home burned to the ground.
I didn’t tell her about my arrangement with my father, but I did tell her who he was. Which makes Andre D’Angelo the only member of her party-of-one shit list.
“Was it Leo?” she asks with a little too much hope in her tone.
“No,” I say softly as my heart squeezes because, for some unshakeable reason, neither of us would put it past him. Except Leo would’ve bought it outright as a Welcome Back to North Carolina gift. This is from Andre, and it’s no gift. My father is praying to God that I’ll slip and break our contract.
He didn’t gift the home to Aunt Grace. For all intents and purposes, it’s a rental. A rental at exactly zero dollars a month for the fee so long as I hold up my part of the bargain and stay out of Chicago.
By the look on her face, she doesn’t believe me. “No?”
I hang my head and reassure her. “It wasn’t Leo.”
A sad moment passes between us. “Good!” she says, spitting piss and vinegar. “The last thing I want is to owe a debt to that security guard.” Her bright eyes meet mine. “Zumba?” she asks with a shake of her hips. Since moving back, Aunt Grace’s energy could light a city.
I shake my head. “I am on a mission to relax.”
“You’re on a mission to scour the internet for a job.” I help collect her gym bag, and we make our way to her car.
Embarrassed, I shrug. “I have an interview tomorrow. With Derrick.”
With both hands, she pinches my cheeks. “How about I have Wade and his crew straighten that boy out?”
My hands wrap around hers. “As much as I’d like to get the line started for the Derrick ball-kicking booth, it’s not a great impression on the man who might become my boss…again.”
I follow her out to the porch because watching her take off is like watching the first firework on the Fourth of July. Sin gifted her a little cherry-red Mercedes convertible that she’s damned near dangerous in. He called it a tax write-off. I call him smitten. “Don’t speed,” I warn her.
She slides her sunglasses down the tip of her nose. “If I don’t, I’m breaking my word. With Sin.” She pops open the glove compartment and hands me a card.
Dance like no one is watching,
Love like you’ve never been hurt,
Sing like no one is listening,
And gun it for all it’s worth.
The car revs as I hand her back the card. “I double-dog dare you to show your brother this sound legal advice.”
“If he pulls me over. He’ll have to catch me first.”