Except he did notice, didn’t he? The dress I wore last week. He’d asked if it was new. He’d actually paid attention to me. But he has no idea about this storage unit, I’m sure of it. I’m good at diverting money from the budget for “miscellaneous household expenses” or “groceries” or “school supplies” to pay for my habits.

I’m careful to lock the unit when I leave. A few years ago, someone broke into one of the other units and cleaned it out. They added security cameras since then, and it turned out the thief was an ex who’d been trying to take back what they considered their own property. Still, I’m always sure to secure my unit. I have literally thousands of dollars’ worth of goods in there, and none of it’s insured.

The new wallet is making me giddy. I can’t stop thinking about it on the drive home. As soon as I pull into my driveway, I take it out of my bag and admire it again. I smooth my fingers over the leather. I smell it. I open it to peek inside again. Everything sends a rush of warmth through me.

It won’t last long.

In a day or so, it’ll just be another wallet I picked up at an estate sale. The hundred dollar bill will be spent and gone, and then, I think, yes, then, I will list the wallet and purse and belt online and sell them for a profit. I totally will.

Movement from the far end of the horseshoe driveway catches my attention. Through my windshield, I can see the open door of the carriage house. Christian appears in it a second or so later. He’s carrying two large black plastic contractor garbage bags toward the street.

I’m out of my car at once, wallet still clutched in one hand. I meet him as he’s halfway back up the drive. His grin fades at the sight of my face.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“Getting rid of a bunch of trash.” He peers around me. “What are you doing?”

“What kind of trash?” I take a step toward the carriage house.

He takes a counter step, blocking me. “I mean trash. Garbage. Junk.”

“You don’t get to decide if it’s junk.”

“Ken told me I had free rein in there. I have to make it livable.” He frowns. “You were right, it’s a dump.”

I shake my head and scowl. “Ken is not in charge of whatever’s in there. You can’t just start tossing stuff. It’s mine.”

“Where is Kenny boy, anyway? I haven’t seen his car.”

“He’s at work.” I don’t mention that he’s been on the road and isn’t due home for another few days.

“So, you’re alone. Nice.” Christian’s smirk rolls across his face, tipping the corners of his eyes. “Are you going to invite me in for coffee? Tea? You?”

“You know I’m not. Don’t you have to be at the hospital?” I cross my arms. The wallet presses my side. My designer sweater that looked so cute when I put it on this morning is far too warm for the afternoon sunshine. Maybe it’s a hot flash. Maybe it’s the way he stares at me.