Page 18 of Mine to Share
With a quick headshake to refocus on the pressing issue I’d rushed over here for, I bent forward, the wind whipping several strands of dark hair against my face, obscuring my vision, as I reached for the white paper that was stuck beneath the top corner of the mat. My confusion grew as I plucked it between two fingertips. It wasn’t thick cardstock, like a mailer for a local business would use, like I’d expected. Instead, it was a folded piece of lined notebook paper, the edges torn as if ripped from a spiral binding.
With a shrug, I shoved the paper into the back pocket of my pants and threw the door open. Inside, I dumped my purse and bag onto the floor and raced up the first flight of stairs. Death grip on the railing, I launched myself around the corner and hurried up the next flight to the bedrooms and potential fire hazard.
Nostrils flaring with each struggling breath, I jogged past the two guest bedrooms and the full bath toward the main bedroom at the end. Dirty clothes littered the floor, the pile of clean laundry still waiting to be folded on the side of the bed I didn’t sleep on. Nothing differed from how I’d left it earlier that morning. No smoke or orange flames crawling across the room.
I blew out a loud relieved breath, the ball of worry in my gut vanishing as I stepped into the bathroom, quickly scanning the open area and finding it just like the bedroom. Various bottles and tiny glass jars filled with expensive face oils lined the counter right next to the reason I’d almost died of lethal injection for mass manslaughter. The flat iron seemed to evilly cackle at me from where it sat on the counter, turned off and cool as a cucumber.
My eyes rolled to the celling.I knew I’d turned it off.
Rounded cord between my fingers, I yanked it free from the socket and then tossed the whole thing into the bottom drawer, slamming it closed with my foot like it was its fault I was this overanxious crazy person.
“Damnit,” I groaned, tossing my head back.
This frantic, all-consuming worry had to stop. It wouldn’t be bad if this only happened now and then. But the panicky episodes, overthinking, and questioning myself happened almost daily lately.
If it wasn’t me freaking out about something I’d left on, it was if I’d locked the front door, or the car door, or my office. And if I couldn’t remember, all the worst-case scenarios of what could happen would work their way into my thoughts and dig in until that was all I could focus on.
Double and triple-checking myself made me damn good at my job…
But a fucking nutcase in my personal life.
Maybe Josh was right that he was the only one who would put up with my increasing level of crazy.
Elbows pressed onto the cool counter, I smacked my face into both palms and raked my fingers back until they tugged through my loose strands.
No. Josh was not right. He was a manipulating asshole who made me dependent on him by making me feel unwanted and unlovable.
Though it was difficult to not see a sliver of truth in his blunt words. Who would want to put up with someone like me long term? My mental state most days was the definition of a shit show, not a hot mess. Looking back, I knew that was why I’d settled for Josh—I thought he was the best someone like me could do.
After that first time he cheated on me, then blamed me, claiming he did it because I worked too much and was never home, I should’ve left. But by that point, I believed his lies, questioning myself and what I had to offer anyone else.
Until a smirking, good-looking detective strolled into the morgue one day.
The man who helped me see through Josh’s lies and manipulations was now back in my life, this time as an FBI agent here to help identify a serial killer. Back then, Jameson was casual about uncovering the issues in my marriage that I wanted to keep hidden. Not sure how he put everything together, but he did. Six months after we first met, our innocent flirting turned pointed, even uplifting in a way. He would constantly build me up, telling me over and over that I was enough.
Not enough for him or anyone else, but for me.
In his own unique way, Jameson gave me the strength to be okay with loving myself just the way I am, quirks and all. I didn’t have to conform to Josh’s needs or wants if they didn’t align with my own—which they never did.
And now that amazing man was here.
My past crush working side by side with my current one.
“Fuck,” I muttered to my reflection. “I can’t even keep my heart rate normal with Slade in the room. I’ll turn into a puddle of mush when it’s both of them.” One hand slipped down my neck, fingers wrapping around the base of my throat. “Both of them,” I whispered, licking my lips. “Me between them—”
The familiar vibration of an incoming text jerked me out of losing myself to the very dirty fantasy.
Pulling out my cell, I skimmed the text letting me know the body was back at the morgue and waiting for me. Time to get back to work now that I knew for certain my house wouldn’t turn into ground zero for setting the entire state of California on fire.
As I turned to head for the door, my fingers shifted along a texture different from my smooth cell phone case. Pausing, I rotated my hand to see what was stuck back there.
The note.
What if all my worrying projected into the universe and this was from a neighbor wanting to get to know me? Which could be great, but my nose wrinkled at the thought of all the effort it took to build friendships. An extrovert I was not, so starting a flimsy acquaintance with this unknown neighbor sounded exhausting.
Preparing for the worst, I unfolded the notebook paper.
Three words.