Page 46 of Pitiful Lies

The whole room is done up on black and slate gray with silver accents, including the bedding. The wood floors are dark and freshly polished, and there is a plush throw rug at the foot of the bed.

The baby hairs on the back of my neck stand. Something is up.

It hits me and I feel like an idiot for not spotting it a mile away.

But I don’t spot it. Not until Angel opens the door to the enormous walk in closet, depositing my suitcase inside.

“Want me to unpack your things?” he asks nonchalantly.

“Oh my God! Are you staying here?” I practically shout.

Angel raises his perfect eyebrows and tilts his head like he’s curious as to why I’m even asking.

“Considering it is my place, yeah, I’m staying here,” he replies easily.

Thunder roars in my head, and I take a shaky step backwards.

It all makes sense.

How at home he is.

The changes in the condo.

Buffy the snake.

Fuck. Shit.

I can’t do this. How the hell am I supposed to get over Angel if I am living with him?

And why didn’t Anna tell me it was his place now?

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

Panic and me, we’re old friends, and I am about ten seconds from having a major attack. I have my phone in my hand, and I am already dialing Anna.

That heifer.

She had to know about this. I know she knows about this. She set me up!

That’s the thing about people who are happy in their romantic lives. They think everyone else should be blissfully in love, too. And they meddle.

But Angel and me, we don’t have that kind of relationship. We don’t have any relationship, I remind myself.

Liar.

Shut up.

Frustration has me growling when it goes straight to voicemail.

“Easy, Little Doll,” Angel says, and I feel his presence draw near.

“Coward,” I mutter at my phone before turning to Angel.

“Thank you, but no thanks. I can’t stay here,” I tell him.

“You don’t really have a choice. Wait a second, hang on,” he says, moving to block my exit with his hands raised.

“Fuck you! I do so have a choice,” I shout.

---