Page 37 of Red Flag, Green Light

I don’t know their connection at all, but I am glad I can go to his source content instead of sifting through the many millions of screenshots Amelia sends me. It’s a little less overwhelming to scroll through his feed and judge the man’s life choices in order than it is to try and keep up with them while I judge Amelia’s.

Case in point, the schedule Mars has just sent to my personal email is very likely to rot and die there unless I make a concentrated effort to print it out the second he leaves me in peace.

Assuming, of course, that Mars will ever leave me in peace again.

His tendency to walk right into my home as though he owns the place appears to be a recurring affliction, uninhibited by my moving my spare key. Perhaps it’s time for me to get a chain lock…

But, then, that would involve leaving my house more than my allotted singular time a month.

Not that such a burden isn’t already going to be on the horizon with this job, but still…

It’s a matter of principle.

Sometimes, very occasionally, I do wonder if my lifestyle is entirelyhealthy, but then I remember that I go outside frequently to tend to my plants, resulting in plenty of sunshine.

We will be ignoring the fact it’s about two in the afternoon, and the last thing I ate was the carrot cake Mars brought over yesterday.

Health is measured by sun time.

Everyone knows that.

If you’re getting twenty minutes a day on average, you’re healthy.

“Ceres,” Mars says, drawing me out of my perfectlyacceptable thoughts. He searches my eyes a moment, then says, “You will check your email. You will follow your schedule. You will not improve your home security.”

“How did you…”

“It’s written all over your face.” He rises, offers me a hand. “Remember, you agreed to this.”

I take his hand, and he helps me to my feet, inches away from him. “I was bribed.”

“I’m not forcing you to accept my bribe, and my bribe isn’t a necessity. You’re welcome to turn it down, any time.”

A thread of tension rises between us, his fingers warm around mine, which are ice cold. I shift my attention to the corkboard amalgamation in my living room. Flowers. Vendors. Rides. Food stalls. Permits. Charity events. Decorations.

This is going to be a wholething.

And it’s going to be full of leaving my house.

But maybe, just maybe, I’m tired of beingafraidto leave. I want to stay because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be, not because I’m scared to go farther than my front lawn. And maybe, just maybe, this external pressure is the exercise I need to get me through the fear.

Side by side with a man who oozes self-assurance despite rioting insecurity, I might be able to rid myself of my own anxiety, once and for all.

“I haven’t eaten today,” I say.

His grip solidifies, and he’s pulling me to the door a moment before I remember my phone is still wedged into the corner of the couch. I pause us in the center of my living room, pull my hand free, and get it.

Then I return.

And offer him my hand again.

Eyes lighting with craze, he asks, “What do you feel like, little goddess? Italian? French? Japanese?”

“Taco Bell.”

He squeezes my hand. “Excellent choice.”

Chapter Eleven

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