Page 38 of Our Elliana

Yet my bestie bounces free, twisting me around and seizing my forearms. “If you’re not willing to talk to Diego, then you should at least tell your housemates about it. They should know to be on the lookout.”

I shake my head. “On the lookout for what?”

“For anything. For something like this being mailed to your house. Unusual circumstances. Just do it. It’ll make me feel better.”

I doubt it’s anything at this point, but I agree anyway. “All right, then. I’ll do it for you.”

SEVENTEEN: Blown the Fuck Away

ELLIANA

As I hop into my sleek burgundy Infiniti SUV hybrid, I slide my purse into the passenger seat beside me, the card tucked inside. I know I promised Andre to tell the guys, but now I feel silly about my mini meltdown. I’ve let a ridiculous case of the heebie-jeebies get inside my head when there’s a dozen different explanations for why someone might’ve sent that damn card.

Still, since a promise is a promise, I prepare a speech on my way home. I need it to sound properly nonchalant, and I think I’ve come up with just the right wording as I coast around my paved drive and into my garage.

I park in the second of the three spaces next to my Porsche Taycan, my cherry red sports car that also happens to be fully electric. Gas is high, and while I might have plenty of money these days, I’m practical to my core.

In the other space is Noah’s half rusted Toyota Tacoma and against the back wall is Jackson’s motorcycle, a white Kawasaki Ninja, that while not rusted has definitely seen better days.

I pass through the garage to the door that leads inside the house from beneath the stairs. My stilettos barely have time to cross from cement to tile when I catch a glimpse of Tristan flying at me from the kitchen, his dark eyes more animated than I’ve ever seen them. Without a word, he covers my eyes with his hands and drags me forward.

“What in the actual hell are you doing?” I demand. He’s never done this before.

“Shhhh,” he says maddingly, his voice as animated as his eyes. “It’s a secret.”

I could throw a fit if I wanted, but the playfulness of Tristan’s actions have me intrigued. My chef is a lot of things but playful isn’t typically one of them. What on earth could he possibly be up to?

I’m visualizing some culinary delicacy of his that must’ve taken a ton of extra effort as he half guides, half frog-marches me through the house while blind. We can’t be heading to the kitchen unless he’s aiming to disorient me by taking us on some circuitous route.

Then, I hear a door gliding open, my French patio doors to be precise, and I know we must be going into the backyard.

“Step over that hump,” he instructs. “Be careful not to trip. That’s it.”

I can tell that I’m outside again for sure as my heel comes down on the bricks and flagstones of my patio. As I come to a standstill, I realize I’m hearing sounds I’m not sure I can identify. Some sort of burbling, maybe.

“Jackson, you ready?” Tristan asks, and I’m totally at a loss about everything.

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