Page 1 of One Little Mistake

CHAPTER 1

Max

“Hey, man! Heard you finally touched solid ground. When are we celebrating?”

My friend’s voice comes through the speakers. How the hell did he find out so fast?

“Let me come back to life first. I’ve spent half a year in a metal can, and I think I’ve turned into a sociopath.” And I’m not even exaggerating. For the past six months, all I’ve seen were the bland faces of twenty-two crew members, the ocean, and those obnoxiously loud seagulls that, for whatever reason, kept flying way out from the coast and getting on our nerves.

“Oh, right, right. You’ve got a fiancée waiting for you. The lone wolf’s finally settling down,” he mocks, and I snort in response.

“Fiancée is a bit of an overstatement, Simmons. But yeah, after a boring life on the ship, it’s good to have someone to run to. I’ve been waiting for this.” I punch the steering wheel and feel my blood heat up.

“Don’t tell me you’re not planning to marry her.”

All the joking vanishes from his voice, and now he’s way too serious. I’m the last one in our group still enjoying the single life—and I don’t regret it one bit. Family life just isn’t for someone like me. I tried it. Didn’t work. But my friends and their wives are always trying to set me up with someone.

“Why should I marry her? We’re in an open relationship.”

“Are you serious right now? I thought having a baby was a pretty solid reason to tie the knot.”

“What baby?” I ask, confused, turning the wheel of my brand-new SUV to the left. Picked it up from the dealership an hour ago. Luckily, the managers there were real pros—handledeverything in a couple of hours. Though the suspicious stares were impossible to avoid. Can’t blame them: I showed up straight from the airport, suitcase in hand, rocking a beard I haven’t shaved in God knows how long.

“She’s pregnant… You didn’t know?” He lowers his voice like it’s some top-secret intel.

“Natalie? Pregnant?” I can’t help it—I burst out laughing. “She was flooding my phone with selfies last night. Not a trace of a baby bump.”

“Who’s Natalie? I’m talking about Erin.”

“Erin who?” I mutter. “Shit, I’ll call you back—there’s a cop up ahead.”

I end the call, still trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with Simmons, and ease off the gas.

I just want to get home already. Take a shower. Toss out all the clothes that reek of engine oil so bad no detergent could ever save them. Crawl under a blanket and stay in bed for a few days. I don’t even remember the last time I got a good night’s sleep. Oh wait—yeah, I do. Two months ago, during a storm when we had to drop anchor. The ship rocked so hard, it felt like I was being launched out of my bunk.

I’m completely disoriented, still feel the ocean’s sway, and my ears are buzzing from the engine noise. The highway’s crawling with cars, trees, people, buildings—everything’s irritating me. It’s like I suddenly landed in another world. And yet, there’s a strange relief in it, knowing I’ve got four months ahead without breakdowns or inspections.

The apartment complex looks exactly the same as it did six months ago. It’s already dark out. I try to spot my windows, but it’s useless. I won’t remember. I only lived here for a few months before I shipped out, and I didn’t bother to memorize anything.

Exhaustion’s kicking in hard. I drag my heavy suitcase up the stairs—nearly forty-eight hours without sleep and a long flightwith two layovers is taking its toll. I spend forever digging for my keys, finally push the front door open, and frown.

The lights are on. It smells like food. There’s a TV playing in the kitchen.

What the hell is going on?

Did Vivienne split up with her husband and crash at my place for a bit?

Or maybe my little sister decided to welcome me home this way?

I don’t notice the women’s coats in the closet right away. Perfume bottles by the hallway mirror, a few pairs of boots on the shoe rack. Yep—definitely Vivienne. She could’ve at least given me a heads-up.

I walk into the kitchen and freeze in the doorway. A girl is standing with her back to me. I can’t see her face, but the long red hair? That’s definitely not Vivienne. And it sure as hell isn’t my sister.

For a second, I think I’ve walked into the wrong apartment. But no, this is my kitchen—and the key fit the lock.

“And who the hell are you?” I say loud enough to cut through the noise of the TV.

She lets out a startled scream and spins around clumsily. Her eyes go wide with panic, but she quickly recovers, grabs a pancake spatula off the counter, and points it at me like a weapon.

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