Page 5 of Red Flags Only

I sniff, grab a tissue – or twelve – from the box on my desk, and dry my face off, avoiding my reflection in the mirror above the dresser to my right. No, thank you, I would not like to see the evidence of my incredible stupidity and weakness. Instead, I toss my used tissues in the big trash can under my desk, not to be confused with the tiny dumpster I use for small paper scraps on top of the desk, and force my focus back to my letter to Jupiter.

Morale.

Sweet, sweet morale, waiting for me to come back to it.

I sniffle.

Yes, please.

Pulling the mess of cardstock, stickers, and washi tape closer to me, I ignore the pounding in my head and the burning in my sinuses.

No time for a breakdown, Lyra. You’ve got a letter to finish.

Chapter Two

Someone get the man a chill pill.

Jove

I scowl at Brianna Single, the post office’s mostdedicatedworker, and wonder exactly how illegal it is to vandalize an official mail truck. Then I wonder exactly how much I care about how illegal it is to vandalize an official mail truck.

“I mean, he works in anoffice building,” she rambles, waving a forest-green envelope around in the air.

My eyes lock on that envelope.

“It’s despicable! Have youeverheard of such aridiculousthing?” she huffs, carelessly tossing the letter into a postal box full of ugly white envelopes addressed toRouge, one name, because when you’re famous, you get to go by one name – even if you’re actually two people. And you pick a name that’s barely different from your last name because your lifelong pen pal and best friend gave it to you as a nickname, and why wouldn’t you want to be reminded of her sweetness every time you sit down to work? As an author, you can pretty much do whatever you want.

Apparently, as a postal worker, Brianna can do whatever she wants too. Includingnot giving me my mail.

“And then he has thenerveto act like he’sdoing well?” She scoffs. “Can you believe that? Doing well! As if!”

“If you’ve damaged that green letter, I’m going to be unhappy,” I warn her, eyes narrowed at her hand as itshovesthe overflowing pile of mail down into the box.

Her hand lifts from its offensive position onmyletter, moving to rest on her chest, directly over her heart. “You wound me, sir! I wouldneverdisrespect the post in such a manner!”

Uh huh. Sure she wouldn’t. “Can I have my mail?” I ask.

She sniffs. “You’re rather cranky today.”

I’m not any more cranky than any other day. She’s just mad I insulted heresteemed profession, and she thinkscrankyis the worst insult you could give to a person. She’s like that elf from that Christmas movie. Not the one with mail… the other one. With the grown man traipsing about New York City like it’s a playground.

I squint at her.

Yeah, she definitely gives frolicking-around-the-big-city-in-a-ridiculous-costume-spreading-“cheer” energy. Talk aboutridiculous.

“Are you going to give me the mail or not?” I grunt, eying the not-quite-opaque white box holding more letters than I care to go through and one which I very much would like to be in possession of approximately yesterday. Mars can have the rest to do with as he likes. I vote for burning them, personally, but something aboutreader relationsdictates we don’t. A pity, as I do so love a little arson to end my day.

She huffs, puffing a stray bit of honey-blonde hair out of her face. I’d like to take that strand of honey andpulluntil shegives me my forest-green letter like she’s supposed to.

“Yes, yes, I just need you to sign. You know, like you have to every time, Mr. Impatient.”

Producing a growl reminiscent of the male lead in my brother’s and my last Rouge novel, I snatch up the plastic pen and scribble what could maybe pass as letters onto the electric pad on the counter. “There,” I grumble. “Now give me my mail.”

She hums, inspecting my signature. You know. Just in case I’m not me.

“I’ve come here three times a week every week since the fourth grade,” I comment, eying the distance between me and my box. I have long arms. I could probably just…

“You can never be too cautious these days,” she chirps. “There are scallywags everywhere!”

---