Page 92 of How To Not Need You

I climb the verandah steps. The third one still creaks. I know this because Tilly pointed it out to me a few weeks ago with a surprisingly serious look on her face.

“It’s the alarm,” she’d explained. “For burglars.” I’d nodded seriously and pretended not to notice Jake’s expression behind her, the one that said he’d been meaning to fix it for months.

My keys come out. I run my thumb over Jake’s one, feeling the slight roughness where it’s been scratched. Still weird. Still terrifying.

Maybe I should give it back.

My fingers immediately close around it.

Right.

Apparently we're not doing that. Excellent contribution, subconscious.

I shake my head to free myself from those thoughts and fit it to the lock. It turns with a loud click that feels obscenely loud in the morning quiet.

A cupboard slams inside, followed by footsteps follow. I pause my movements to press my ear against the door.

Who could that be?

I hear water running. My hand stays on the key. My first thought is burglary, which is ridiculous because burglars don’t typically stop to use the water. My second thought is Jake, maybe his shift changed, maybe he came home early, maybe he just forgot to text me that he had Hades covered?

But the footsteps don’t sound like Jake. They’re lighter.

Removing my key from the lock, I decide to knock instead of calling out. Three firm raps against the wood, my knuckles hitting harder than I mean to because something in my chest is setting me on edge.

The footsteps stop. Then they change direction, moving toward the door. I wish I could explain why my heart starts to beat so fast. Hell, I don’t even understand it myself. It’s probably just Jake wearing socks or something. I wait with this gnawing feeling growing in my stomach and the key once again pressing into my palm, causing sharp pricks of pain that I am choosing to ignore.

The door opens and Megan stands on the other side.

For one completely normal second, my brain registers details without understanding them. Wet hair. Bare shoulders. A white towel wrapped around her body.

Jake’s house behind her.

Then everything catches up.

No.

My fingers close around the key so hard the teeth bite into my palm.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

I stare at her. I have read this scene before.

Not this exact scene, obviously. Harper hasn't written a book called Your Boyfriend’s Ex-Wife Answers His Door in a Towel.

But this moment.

The one where a woman sees something she wasn't supposed to see and suddenly every stupid little thing she believed five seconds ago becomes evidence against her.

Last night Jake gave me a key.

Less than twelve hours later, his ex-wife is standing inside his house wearing a towel.

Something inside me drops, not shatters, nothing that dramatic. It just fucking drops. Straight through my stomach.

For a brief second after my body had frozen solid, I wanted to scream at her.

Maybe go full Luca and demand to know what the fuck she's doing there.