Page 8 of Red Flag, Green Light

Ceres

“Ceres.”

My heart ruptures, and I twist in my chair to find none other thanMars Rogue—one of my next-door neighbors—standing in my living room, casually, just…juststandingthere. Playing cards in his hands, he stretches them like an accordion in front of his pinstripe button-down.

“Hey,” he says, smiling amicably.

As though I do not keep my house locked.

As though it is perfectly normal for him to be here.

I might not be the greatest at anythingsocial, but I am almost positive it is very muchnotnormal for him to be here at all.

My next-door neighbors, Mars and Jupiter Rogue, are infamous in the town of Bandera for their often illegal behavior, and despite my hermit lifestyle, even I know about some of the town gossip concerning them.

Thing is, I’ve never once had a problem with my neighbors. Jupiter, or Jove, is a monumental sweetheart, who only occasionally—several times a week or so—slashes tires.

Considering I have lived next door to him for three years now and not once have I had my tires slashed, I can conclude that Jove is not slashing tires just to slash tires.

He slashes tires with meaning.

And I don’t know what the vendettas are, but I will always, always support vigilante anti-heroes.

I support them less when they show up unannounced in my living room in the middle of a work day.

Hurrying to save my document so I can address what I’m certain is a fever dream, I bump my water tumbler and send it careening off my desk.

Suddenly inches away, Mars catches it. “Oop,” he murmurs, hovering over me.Looming, rather. Close. From here, I can smell the chaos wafting off him. Along with something…sweet? He smells like a bakery thick with sugar and spiked with pure cocaine. Like the air around him is little more than buttercream frosting ready to send you tumbling into fabricated bliss if you breathe in too deep. His electric green eyes slash to mine as he puts my tumbler back on a green crocheted succulent coaster I bought off Etsy. “Careful, little goddess. You shouldn’t aspire to water your carpet.”

I…do not know what to do. Mars isn’t apeoplelike other people are people. He’s unpredictable, and my natural instincts aren’t kicking in or overwhelming me to action. Even if this is the first time we’ve talked, I’ve known of him since I saw him practicing throwing cards in his yard the day I moved in. And even if I don’t go outside often, through Amelia I still find myself inundated with the most popular town gossip, which the Rogue brothers often headline.

There are no rules where it concernsMars Cygnus Rogue.

Therefore, I reply genuinely, “I don’t aspire to much.”

He scans me. Head to foot.

My bare toes curl against my forest green office chair, and I determine that I should probably sit properly whilst I have company. Putting my legs down, I smooth my hands across the gold constellations scattered all over my ankle-length skirt.

After a chilling delay, he responds, “I had noticed that, yes.”

Something in his tone comes off somewhat…concerning. But it’s no more or less concerning than the fact he’s in my livingroom right now, so I let it slide. Priorities, and all that.

Hefting a sigh, he drops his thigh against the edge of my desk, crosses his ankles, and mindlessly shuffles his cards. “We both have that problem, you and I.”

“Problem…?” I echo, wondering what Twilight Zone I’ve woken up in.

One second, I’m editing for my second favorite client, Tempest Rain; the next, I’m being told I have a problem? The only problem I sort of have right now is withdrawals. Because Rouge hasn’t given me even the minutest inkling of when I can expect her next manuscript. And I amdyingfor it.

My favorite client and closest friend, Rouge, is a machine. Generally, I can rely on her getting me a color-coded schedule with project dates for the entire year in January. Her upcoming project tends to reach me right around the time the previous one launches. But now it’s February, and her first launch of the year is a Valentine book.

I should have my color-coded schedule and her next manuscript in my inbox.

I have neither, nor dopamine.

This is not the sort of problem Mars would know about, though.

Actually…

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