“Once again, I’m only pregnant, not deathly ill.” I gave a small laugh as I added, “I’m just embarrassingly out of shape.”

An engine revved, and I jolted. My gaze flew outside to see a little red car speed by, the back all souped-up with spoilers and fins and whatever else people did to make their cars sound like they didn’t have mufflers. Some of the students at the school where I worked had similar setups and liked to show them off by doing laps in the parking lot.

Usually during the most inopportune time for maximum attention.

“Dickhead,” Hollywood muttered, shaking his head.

“How else are women going to know what a stud he is?” I pulled the door open wider, another silent hint. And then I followed it up with a not-so-silent one. “Thanks again for the help, Ward.”

“Welcome home, neighbor.”

My heart, which had just begun to slow to a normal pace, picked up again as I watched the tattooed wall of thoughtfulness stop on my lawn. He checked his phone before jogging toward his house.

I had my valuables—emotional, not financial—to grab from the front of the van. I had to figure out how and where to return said van. I had to unpack the boxes and totes so I knew what I had and where it was.

And I needed to get some noodles for dinner.

I didn’t do any of that.

Instead, I flopped down on the couch. The plastic crinkled under me as a new burst of dead flowers and musk filled the air.

It was fitting. Poetic even.

Because with the way I ached, I didn’t feel twenty-six years old. I felt like the house.

Dusty and dated.

Ancient.

The quiet roar of an engine came from outside. Unlike the annoying whir of the red car, it was low and rumbling.

A motorcycle.

One that likely belonged to Ward. Hollywood.

As I listened to him ride away, his words echoed in my head.

‘Welcome home, neighbor.’

Yeah.

Right.

I rubbed my belly, but that time it wasn’t to ease the tight muscles. “You heard the man, Squish. Welcome home.”

My baby kicked in response.

Or maybe it was a gas bubble.

I wasn’t sure.

3. Run With Scissors, Douche

CHAPTER 3

RUN WITH SCISSORS, DOUCHE

HOLLYWOOD

I wasn’t tired anymore. Sure, I was running on energy drinks and fumes. But I was also hyped as fuck.

Climbing off my bike, I grabbed my equipment bag and walked up to the showy mansion. A skittish housekeeper opened the door before I could ring.

I’d never seen her before, and based on the way she hauled ass, I wouldn’t see her again.