Page 43 of Double Obsession

“Umm. Thirty-three dollars,” he said.

“I’m not insane. I know the current inflation rate, and I only owe nine dollars and twenty cents, but you can keep the change since I’m in a good mood. And I hope the police don’t arrest you.”

The man’s hand shook, and his voice cracked. “Okay. Have a nice day.”

“Hmm,” she said. “I think I need cigarettes. I’ll take the red ones with the crown.”

The man cringed, opened the case, and tossed them on the counter. “Just take them and go, please.”

What a weirdo.

After putting two quarters on the counter, she strolled into the sun. She climbed into her car, placed her wallet and cigarettes in her backpack, and aimed her car towards Hunter Stone’s apartment.

Five minutes into her trip, she slammed a palm on her steering wheel. “Malami bo!” she exclaimed to Jesus, who merrily swung from her rearview mirror without a care in the world. Didn’t he realize those men had ruined her pit stop and made her forget to water the beast in the trunk?

****

Navigating Brooklyn proved more challenging than Arkansas had imagined. Good thing she was an excellent driver and didn’t put up with crap. Unfortunately, she had to yell a few choice words at rude individuals, and some imbecile put a new dent in her front fender. But none of that mattered anymore since she was parked in front of Hunter Stone’s house.

She peeked into the rearview mirror.

The scratches on her cheek were still raw—the damnable feline! Other than that, she was gorgeous. Her light brown curls framed her full cheeks, her distinctive nose dominated her face, and her eyes were the perfect shade of brown. A nasty boy had once told her they were the color of “cow poop.” It had all been fun and games until she shoved his face in a mud puddle at recess. She hadn’t minded detention since it allowed her to catch up on her reading. She ran a finger over her crescent-shaped beauty mark. Hunter was just the type of man to appreciate how colorful it was. And wait until he saw that they matched.

With her backpack on her shoulder, a recycled gift bag from the journal her grandmother had given her on her sixteenth birthday in one hand, a cake in the other, and a snarling cat attached to the leash around her wrist, she climbed Hunter’s front stoop.

The stone archway was so unlike the turquoise aluminum-sided shack she inhabited. She’d thought Grandmommy’s home was spectacular until she’d made this trip and seen the world.

She knocked and held her breath. The heavy oak door only slightly muffled the barks and footsteps. Then again, Arkansas’s auditory acuity was that of a blind person’s

The door flew open, and she immediately recognized the blond-haired man holding the game controller since he was all over Hunter’s social media stories. Hunter’s dogs stood behind him, their tails wagging like sharp-bladed, oscillating fans.

The injured cat’s hair spiked as he hissed.

“Knock it off,” she reprimanded the monster. “Hello, Clark Stevens,” she said as she smiled at the adorable dogs.

“Hey,” he said.

“I’m Arkansas, and I’m here to see Hunter.”

“Wow. You’re early. We thought you might be a man, and we didn’t know you had a pet.”

She bristled. She’d suffered a lot of insults, but no one had ever accused her of being a man. “I brought this thing along because I don’t want his injury to get infected.”

The man glared at the animal. “I’m not sure your cat likes Hunter’s dogs.” His frown turned into a grin. “Although, as long as you can cook, we’ll figure it out.”

“I am an excellent cook. Grandmommy taught me when I was twelve.”

“Awesome!” He lifted the foil on the plastic container to peek inside.

“That is for the dogs,” she said.

He dropped the lid before she had a chance to swat his hand away. “That’s good.” He chuckled. “It smells a bit like decaying rodent.” He shoved the controller under his armpit and grabbed the cake from her. “Let me take that; you handle Mister Pissy.” He stepped aside to usher her in.

She wrangled with the persnickety cat, eventually clutching it to her chest.

Her annoyance with the man ceased the second she stepped into the foyer. She had read about houses like this but had never seen one. The walls and furniture were pure white, and the woodwork was dark and intricate. There wasn’t a single dirty dish or a book anywhere. If she ran her hands over the furniture, she doubted she could find a grain of dust. Although she needed to buy yarn and get to work crocheting doilies because it needed a woman’s touch.

“It looks like a prince lives here,” she said.