Page 34 of Once Upon a Lie

A little smile quirks up her lips. “I remember you.”

Okay, this is progress. This is good. If she knows who I am, that means—

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m kind of in a hurry.” Her eyes flick down to the box under my arm. “Is there something you needed?”

—absolutely nothing, Shane. It means absolutely nothing.

“I won’t keep you,” I say smoothly, shifting the box enough to show her what I’m holding without making her feel like she needs to take them immediately. I need to buy myself a couple of minutes, desperately. Stoneface Mike sent me a message this morning that suggested a subtle relocation of my crown jewels if I don’t start producing something for the investigation. “I just wanted to drop these off.”

“Trash bags?”

Technically, they’re industrial-grade trash bags. The kind meant for construction sites, hoarders, and people who absolutely cannot afford another run-in with wildlife or Rita Fortune.

“Yes. Trash bags. But the nuclear-grade ones,” I say. “Heavy duty. Built to survive anything from glass bottles to . . . aggressive wildlife.”

That earns me a surprised laugh, and if my ego were an appendage, it’d be feeling mighty stroked right now.

“I’ve learned Magnolia has opinions about trash,” I add. “Thought I’d be proactive and help my neighbor out.”

Especially since I’m the one causing said unnecessary chaos in her life.

“You brought me trash bags. Impenetrable trash bags.”

I shrug and smile. “I considered a potted plant, but I figured being able to prevent HOA violations was the gift that would keep on giving, you know?”

“Thank you.” Her smile is bright and amused as I hold the box out toward her. “This is equal parts hilarious and really nice of you.”

Her fingers brush mine as she takes it. Brief. Accidental. Logged.

“Anything to save you from the scrutiny of our HOA commander in chief. I batted for you in the group chat, but Rita wasn’t having it.”

“I noticed. That was really nice of you, actually. I’m sorry I didn’t reply with my thanks or—”

I shake my head. “There are no strings attached. Just neighborly goodwill.”

“I feel a little bad now,” she says, and a cute little frown turns down the corners of her full mouth. “You’re the new guy in the building. I should’ve been the one bringing you banana bread or something.”

I wave a hand in the air. “Good news, I don’t even like banana bread.”

She chuckles, her soft eyes holding mine for a precariously tense moment.

Ask her out, my mind whispers. Ask her to dinner or coffee or fucking bowling if you have to. Anything that will put you all up in her world.

“Maybe we could—”

“Well, I really—”

We both blush.

“Sorry,” I say. “You go ahead.”

“I really appreciate this. Truly. But I really have to go because I’m running late to meet my mom.” She glances at her watch and immediately tosses the box of trash bags inside her door.

I take the blow like a man, but it stings inside more than it should.

“Say less. I respect punctual women and mothers.”

That gets me another quick, genuine smile, and then she steps into the hall, locking her door with practiced efficiency. As she heads toward the elevator, I fall into stride beside her, trying to make the most of the shrinking window of opportunity.