The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(10)

“If you want the haunted basement, it’s all yours.”

I shake my head, and we trade air-kisses. Then I’m out, walking around the house’s back right corner, up the stairs, into my little flat without a single glimpse of Gabe. When I get into the kitchen, I clean up the mess I left, and then open the cabinet underneath the sink.

Gabe’s bag.

I need to leave it on the porch before I ride to Mom’s later.



*

Gabe





I’ve got my laptop and my notes upstairs. I moved my shit last night, after my impromptu plunge into the lake. There’s a bedroom on the second floor with green everything: walls, curtains, bedding, rugs. It’s got a nice view of the street below, and good afternoon light. I thought it might be easier to write here, in a spot where I can’t hear the floor creak every time she moves.

That’s what I’m doing—trying to write at a desk I hauled over beside a floor-to-ceiling window—when something on the sidewalk catches my eye, and I see Marley coming up the walk.

Her head is down, a curtain of long, dark hair obscuring her face as her curvy hips sway.

I stand so I can watch her as she walks up the front steps and disappears under the porch. I wait for her to knock or ring the bell, but soon, I see her back as she goes back down the walk, her dark hair swishing between her shoulder blades.

I can’t help the way my gaze caresses her curves. Mine. Except—they’re not. And isn’t that strange?

I watch as she swings a leg over her bike, puts her hands on the handlebars, and pedals off in the direction of her mom’s house.

Fuck, I’m getting hard…

An illicit image flickers through my mind: that bare, fat ass, and Marley’s long hair in my fist. I clench my teeth and blow my breath out. That’s the kind of shit I can’t be thinking.

I walk out of the green room and into the square of hallway that surrounds the stairs, which drop into the first-floor entry hall. In the area around the top of the stairs, there are several doors, leading to several areas. One of them is Marley’s quarters.

I stroll over to that door and wonder what my ex would think if she knew I’m on the other side. Fendall House is huge, and Mar’s apartment is only a portion of the upstairs. The rest of the house is mine: 1,100 square feet upstairs, and almost 3,300 square feet downstairs.

I walk downstairs and check the front porch, even though I know already what I’ll find. When I lift my bag, I feel something inside. It can’t be…

I unzip the bag and blink into its dark contours, and sure enough, I’m staring at the package of pork chops.

I can’t help a dry laugh.

Fucking Marley.

Soft on the outside, but when you push her buttons, woman is feistier than a cat in heat. She always has been.

I stash the pork chops in the freezer. I can barely cook—yeah, yeah, I lied—and even if I could, I don’t have the motivation. As I walk back to my workroom, I stop again at her door.

Don’t be a pathetic fuck.

I pad slowly to the green room, where I stare at my keyboard for half an hour, then fuck around on social media.

Nicely done, McKellan.

I check the rankings on my last release, and then just sit here as the orange, October sun slides down behind the trees, and I can feel cool air waft through the cracked window.

Finally, I give in and check my Google drive. I click a folder marked “From Hugh” and find today’s date. I forget to breathe as I comb through the snapshots. Half an hour later, I smack the Macbook shut and head downstairs.





5





Marley





I wake in a sea of…small, gold circles? I blink a few times, and the circles streaming down onto my bed make sense. Lace eyelet curtains cover the window punched into the wall directly in front of me. Morning sunlight streams through them, playing on my bedding—and on me.

I look around the room. So quiet. Still. This house is 150 years old, and it feels it. I inhale its musty, unfamiliar scent—a little baby powder-ish, with a bite of fresh cedar—and look up at the ceiling, indented in the middle, where a delicate, crystal chandelier hangs. This place has a strange vibe: both ornate and old, formal and homey. I’ve always loved antiques for just that reason.

I climb out of bed, rubbing my toes against the oriental rug’s short fibers before I reach for the remote on my nightstand, aim it at the TV I set atop an old washstand table, and navigate to my favorite morning show.

I’m only half-listening as I wriggle into a sports bra and a tank top, pull on running shorts, and tug socks onto my feet. I’m lacing up my first shoe when I hear his name. Something something, “Gabriel McKellan.” I freeze until I realize they’re talking about his most recent book-turned-movie, The Husband.

As I work my foot into my other sneaker, I listen for news of another kind: something dramatic. Tragic. Something that would match what Mom told me. But they move on to the new Blade Runner.

I’m guzzling water in the kitchen when I hear a door below me slam. I hold my breath and yep, that’s got to be him leaving. Good. He might have stopped and helped me after our run-in at the grocery store, but that means nothing. Gabe’s in asshole mode. In ex mode.

So am I.

I slide my iPhone into my armband, stick my ear buds in my ears, and start my workout playlist while I stretch in the grass. I check my watch—6:09 a.m.—before jogging to the sidewalk and hanging a right, toward the cemetery.