Page 46 of Wicked Fortune

I glance at Matthew, expecting polite sympathy. Instead, his jaw is tight, his blue eyes locked on mine with an intensity that humbles me.

“I know,” I whisper. “Vile. And if I ever find out who he is,” I add, my voice low and hard, “I will fucking destroy him.”

Matthew’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I don’t blame you,” he says. “That’s exactly what I’d do.”

SEVENTEEN

I’m running late for obvious reasons when I screech to a stop in front of my house, slamming Harry the Honda into park with a satisfying jolt. My brain is already spinning possible excuses to toss at Lila as to why I’m so late—and since oh, I stayed at Matthew’s last night but didn’t have a change of clothes for today—probably won’t go over well, I’m hoping to brainstorm something a tad more creative. But I’m distracted from spinning my deceptive tales when I spot my elderly neighbor—Tilda? Zelda?—standing on my porch, taping something to my front door.

Great.

I sigh, half hoping she’ll scuttle away before I get out of the car. But no, she hears me as soon as I open the car door, her head snapping up like she’s been caught committing a crime.

“Oh! Ellie, I thought you were at work!” she exclaims, pulling down the piece of paper and handing it to me.

Ellie—I have a letter for you. Tilda.

“Thanks.” I resist the urge to correct my name even as I wonder if someone on the block named Ellie is missing her mail.

I smile again, mostly because I don’t know what to say, and she takes that opportunity to pass me a brown paper bag that rattles when I shake it. Which makes me pretty certain there’s more in there than a letter.

She must see the confusion on my face, because she smiles, pats my arm, then says, “I know how much you single girls like candy. I had some left over from Halloween and thought I should spread the love.”

“Great.” I somehow manage a smile as I imagine biting into an eight-month-old, sugar-coated gummy concoction. “It was sweet of you to think of me,” I add, because it’s true. Even if delivering misdirected mail with a side of stale candy is more than a little odd.

She just stands there, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to tip her or make conversation. I decide to go for a polite-but-bland smile. “I’m so late for work.” I pause, hoping she takes the hint. “Just one of those days,” I add, when she continues to linger.

“Hmm,” she says, squinting at me with the sharp, discerning gaze of someone who’s about to launch into a story I don’t have time for.

But all she says is, “Long night?” and I feel heat bloom across my cheeks.

“Something like that,” I mutter, willing her to just saunter back to her house. But no, now she’s shifting her weight and adjusting her oversized purse like we’re settling in for a chat.

“The letter in there was mis-delivered weeks ago,” she says. “I’m sorry to have held onto it so long. I’ve been away—an Australian cruise. So magnificent! And my dear, you would not believe the kangaroos. They’re so⁠—”

“That sounds fabulous” I interrupt, my voice a little too high-pitched. “But I’m terribly late for a meeting.”

Not true, of course, but the mental image of Lila’s stony-eyed glare is enough to put the fear of God into me. I start shifting from foot to foot, hoping this universal sign of urgency will get her to wrap things up.

“Oh, of course. You working girls. Always busy. My Betsy goes a mile a minute, and I can’t ever seem to⁠—”

“I’m really sorry. But you know I work at Hardline, and I have a conference call with Steven Spielberg in less than an hour, so I really need to run.”

She presses a hand to her heart. “Indiana Jones is absolutely delicious, isn’t he?”

“Hell, yes,” I say, and right then, I’m being totally sincere.

“Well, I won’t keep you.” She finally starts tottering down the steps, moving at the speed of molasses.

I sigh again, then hurry to her side, taking an arm to steady her as she makes her way down, chattering all the while about koalas.

By the time I manage to get inside the house and close the door behind me, I’m practically vibrating with impatience. I toss the bag carelessly onto the entry table and sprint to my room, not even bothering to scope out the candy situation. I have zero need to apply fun-size Snickers directly to my ass in the days before I’m—hopefully—going to be up close and very personal with Matthew.

Besides, I bet Tilda only buys the cheap stuff for the little witches and warlocks.

Twenty minutes later, right when I’m finally showered, dressed, and ready to bolt out the door, my phone screen lights up with a text from Lila.

If you are running late, policy is to check in. If you are out sick, policy is the same.