Page 2 of One Little Mistake

For the record, that’s my pancake spatula. Same with the white button-up shirt she’s wearing—though I guess I could be wrong.

“Don’t come any closer! I’ll call the cops!” she yells, full of fire.

“Very threatening,” I mutter. “How’d you get in here?”

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“I mean it! Or are you… are you a friend of Max?” she asks, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

I glance over her—I can’t miss the very obvious baby bump. Pregnant. Great.

“Well, actually, I am Max. And you are…? No, wait, don’t answer,” I cut her off with a wave of my hand. “Let me guess: you broke in while the place was empty, right? Pack your things and get the hell out. I’m not in the mood to deal with some random chick tonight. And if I notice anything missing, don’t worry—I’ll file a report.”

“This is some kind of joke, right? Max set this up?”

She starts walking toward me—moving way too smoothly for someone that pregnant. She passes by, looks around the room, then opens the front door and peers into the hallway.

“Where is he? This isn’t funny! At all!” Her eyes flash with anger, lips tight, fingers nervously tugging at the sleeves of the shirt.

“Okay, let’s skip the drama class performance and get you out of my house.”

“This is a mistake. You must’ve come to the wrong apartment.”

“How did you get in? Where’d you get the keys?” That’s the only thing I actually want to know.

She stares at me, unblinking. Swallows hard. Her brows knit together, and her hand goes to her belly.

“Vivienne gave them to me. The neighbor,” she says quietly.

“Oh, great. You dragged Vivienne into this too?”

“No, no, that’s crazy. This is my fiancé’s apartment. His name is Max, and he’s working on a ship right now.”

“Well, well, now it all makes sense. Someone clearly got all my info—but surprise, I came back a week early. Didn’t see that one coming, huh?”

I grab her coat from the hook and toss it in her direction.

“Here’s your jacket. Boots, purse, what else? Take this too.”

I sweep all the makeup off the shelf into a paper bag and hand it to her.

She doesn’t move. Tears well up in her eyes, and I grimace. I hate tears. Classic manipulation tactic.

“Is this some kind of prank? Because if it is, it’s a really stupid one. Sir, please leave my fiancés apartment. Go on, get out!”

She throws her clothes to the floor and points at the door.

“Excuse me?” My eyebrow shoots up.

Okay, she’s got guts. My nerves are already hanging by a thread, and now this.

She should be thanking me for not calling the cops—not trying to throw me out.

“You heard me! I don’t know who you are, but please take your suitcase and leave me alone.”

Her face and neck flush deep red, and she rubs her massive belly with one hand.

Is it even real? Or part of the act?

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