I turn back around to face my living room and that’s when I see Echo.
Only, Echo isn’t running toward me, excited and ready to eat.
Nope.
Echo is sitting in the lap of one very tall, very dark, and very handsome man.
Neil Coleman is in my living room.
Okay, I guess he figured out it was me.
“Hello, Cupcake,” he says.
Shit.
Chapter Two
Neil
“H-H-How did you know where to find me?” She whispers.
Finley Peterson is perhaps the cutest, dumbest girl on the face of the planet. How did I know where to find her? Well, she wrote me a letter almost every damn day for five years. It wasn’t as hard to track her down as I think she was expecting.
All I had to do was look up the name of our high school with the word “cupcake” to find out exactly who she was.
Four-time Kurlin High School baking champion.
Yeah.
That’s Finley.
“Trade secret,” I say, and I continue petting the kitten in my lap as I look at her. Finley looks less scared than I thought she would. She looks more…well, she looks a little aroused, to be honest. Does my sweet cupcake have a dark side? Does she have a kidnapping fantasy? Is she into kink? I wouldn’t have thought so, but judging by the way she’s licking her lips, well, I think it’s safe to say we’ll both be having dessert tonight.
I set the kitten down. Echo, she called him. The kitten immediately takes off: probably scampering for the kitchen. Finley stands perfectly still and just looks at me.
“What are you doing here?” She whispers.
“I think you know the answer to that,” I say.
Finley Peterson is the most interesting woman in the damn world. She’s written me letter after letter. I have no idea why she started writing to me, but I’m not about to complain about that. Her words kept
me sane for five long years. For five years, I sat in a fucking box and rotted away for something I didn’t do, and Finley…
Well, Finley is my salvation.
I don’t know if she has a boyfriend or a girlfriend or someone she’s been looking twice at, but she’s mine now. I’m here, and I’m not about to let the best thing that ever happened to me go. I don’t really care if I have to take her by force or not, but damn, if I don’t think she’s going to melt in my hands like butter.
I decide to push my luck.
I take a step closer to her, and she doesn’t move. She doesn’t flinch or run away. She just looks at me. When she stares at me, I get the distinct impression that she’s looking at the old me: the me from before. That’s not a feeling I ever get.
When most people stare at a convict, they look at them like they’re utter trash. That’s the type of look I’m used to. Even when I took the bus here, I was gawked at and stared at like I’d killed some poor old woman’s dog.
I didn’t.
I didn’t do any of that.
But Finley looks at me like she fucking believes in me, like she believes me, and I don’t know whether I should love that or hate it.