Page 10 of Red Flag, Green Light

What is going on?

Handing Mars his glass of lemonade, I thumb through my How to Be a Person booklet and recall what I’m supposed to doin the event a stranger suddenly appears in my house. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to call the police.”

Eyes locked on mine, Mars sips his lemonade. The ice in his glass clinks together when he lowers the rim from his lips. “I’d rather you not do that.”

I press my lips together. “Isn’t this breaking and entering?” AKA, a crime.

His brow rises. “No, of course not. I’ve not broken anything. That would be impolite. I used your spare key.”

The one I keep in a planter by my front door? Well, that’s a different story then.

Not.

My eyes narrow. “You’re not supposed to know where that is.”

He tilts his head. “Really?” He takes another casual sip of his lemonade. “You don’t say.”

I’m pretty sure I do say.

He hums. “You should consider a less conspicuous location for it, then. Might I suggest under the front mat?”

Under my front mat, which says, “Leave”? I’m not sure I should take advice from someone who clearly can’t read. “I’m so sorry…” I push my hair back behind my ear and try a smile on for size. “Why are you in my house?”

“Do you want the long answer or the short answer?”

I do have a deadline, so. “Short, please.”

He twists, making a single card appear in his free hand. Flicking it so it spins between his fingers, he strides back toward my living room and says, “I got bored.” Casting a dastardly glance over his shoulder, he lets his lips curl until a chill streaks down my spine. “And, speaking of ambitionless boredom, I think it’s due time you and I had a wee chat, little goddess…don’t you?”

Absolutely not.

But, well, I’d rather his brother not slash my tires, so I sigh—despondent—and follow Mars back to my living room.

Chapter Three

This isn’t coercion…it’s manipulation.

Mars

“No, thank you.” Ceres crosses her ankles as she politely declines my proposition. “It’s very…” Her gaze lifts to her ceiling and trails there a moment, searching. “…kindof you to think of me, but I’m not interested.”

Oh, this beautiful fool…

Smiling into my glass of lemonade, I say, “I wasn’t exactly asking.”

Her attention floats on down from her ceiling to land delicately upon me. She blinks her beautiful hazel eyes. Then awareness widens them. Her lashes flutter. “Oh. You’re threatening me.”

“Am I?” I provide, conversationally. It’s not healthy to start a real-world relationship with threats. So I am absolutely, one hundred percentnotthreatening anyone.

Ceres hums. “I suppose you haven’t yet, but if you’re notaskingfor my help, then that means you’re demanding it. And if you’re demanding it, surely you have a means with which to assure my compliance.”

“Coercion is wrong,” I educate my pretty neighbor, and friend of five years, although she doesn’t need to know that yet. Also of note, were I having this conversation with her alter ego Sara, she wouldn’t agree with me.

If there’s one thing my editor loves, it’s coercion.

Ceres threads her fingers together atop her lap. “Mr. Rogue—”

“Please don’t call me that.”

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