For the first time, I understand people who go for a run when they’re stressed.
I can’t sit still—and I haven’t been able to for the past hour. Same goes for finishing my dinner. I’m pacing around my tiny apartment, going from kitchen to bedroom to bathroom and back. My cats are staring at me like I’ve lost my mind, and it’s possible that I have.
There’s no way a bajillion dollars’ worth of rare books are sitting on my kitchen counter, along with a note that says, “Pick you up at 7 tonight.”
It’s a prank. It has to be.
For the twentieth time, I grab my phone and begin composing a message to Marcus.
Thank you so much for your insanely generous gifts, but I’m afraid I can’t accept them—and I have other plans tonight. Also, are you messing with me?
I erase the text before I can send it,
