Page 11 of Stroke of Fate

Instead of apologizing, he looks amused. Which only irritates me further.

“Just making sure the package gets delivered to the right person this time.”

The smirk stays plastered on his face, making me want to smack it right off him.

The thought is like a bucket of cold water.

This isn’t me. I’m not the person who fights fire with fire. I don’t do confrontation.

Taking a deep breath, I focus hard on composing myself.

“It’s just Bear,” I repeat, feeling slightly better when my voice comes out steady and calm.

“Well, just Bear. Here you go.” He slides the box from one end of the counter to the other, almost like he’s daring me to get it.

I hate that I notice how his arm muscles flex with the movement.

Refusing to let him see me flustered, I stride over, meeting his gaze head-on. We’re not exactly at eye level—he's taller, but not so much that he has to look down at me. And I’ve never been more grateful for my height.

Unfortunately, my face heats under his scrutiny, and I’m forced to drop my gaze first, praying my tan hides the flush of my cheeks. But when I focus on the box between us, the box withmybelongings, I notice the mismatched tape.

Someone opened it.

And I know exactly who that someone is.

“You opened it?” I snap, no longer caring about being polite.

Screw polite, and screw him for going through my stuff.

“I didn’t know what it was.” He shrugs in that infuriatingly casual way like it’s no big deal.

“It’s my private stuff!” I practically hiss.

“Then you should have been more careful about where you sent it.” His brow lifts, daring me to tell him he’s wrong.

I want to. I really do. But I can’t because he’s right. The mix-up was partly my fault.

I open my mouth to explain and apologize but snap it shut just as fast. He doesn’t need an explanation, much less an apology.

Feeling defeated and no longer interested in whatever this back-and-forth between us is, I silently grab the box and head for the front door.

A few steps in, my biceps are already burning under the strain, but I refuse to let him see me struggle.

I’ve just crossed the threshold when his voice stops me.

“Wait.”

That singular word freezes me in place. If it weren’t for the urgency in his tone, I would have kept walking, or that’s what I tell myself.

Turning, I face him again, and we’re right back where we started. Back when I was naïve enough to think this would be a friendly encounter between neighbors.

I wait for him to say more, but he just steps closer. The box feels awkward in my arms, and when he reaches for it, I let him take it, both relieved and confused as I watch him set it down beside me.

Still, he says nothing. And the familiar flutter of nerves kicks up, not butterflies because that would be ridiculous.

With the box no longer between us, he leans in, picking up a loose strand of my hair. His touch is surprisingly gentle, but the way my insides react, you’d think he was touching other parts of me.

His eyes turn a shade darker, his jaw so tight I’m surprised I don’t hear his teeth grinding together.

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