Fate Book

Mike stepped back. “Are you trying to ruin my life?”

“No—I…”

He walked away. No, wait. He ran away. As quickly as his feet could carry him.

I slid into the passenger side of my car and closed the door. Damn it! Was this why Santiago didn’t jump all over the guy? He knew this would happen!

“Well,” Bridget said, “that blacklist thing is certainly going to put a huge crimp in your social life. Once you’re on, it’s almost impossible to be removed. So, who’d you piss off?”

I shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The next morning, like so many mornings before this one, I rolled over in bed, half-awake, thinking that the events of the prior day had been a dream. Nothing but a bad, bad dream. But as my mind floated up from the depths of a sleepy swamp, I knew in my gut that Santiago’s return was real. And while a tiny part of me couldn’t help but feel fascinated—the man was a walking, talking question mark with killer looks—my saner side knew better.

Question was, what was I going to do about him? What could I do about him? Tell the police, the FBI? File a restraining order? Laws couldn’t stop a man who seemed to know my every move, who knew my secrets, who had connections with everyone. No solution fit, but I wasn’t about to give up. And I’d be damned if I would let him take away my dreams.

I quickly dialed my father and got his voicemail. I left an urgent message and then tried my mother.

Voicemail. Damn it!

All right. Breathe. Calm yourself. Think. I pondered for several moments, but came up empty-handed in the solutions department. As for emotions? I had an abundance of those; primarily pissed off. Santiago’s unexpected return would not deter me from my mission—having a life! A perfect life. Which is exactly what I planned to do while I figured this out.

Wanting to let Bridget sleep, I grabbed my clothes, showered, dressed, and went to the café to pick up a much-needed coffee before heading off to buy books and explore the campus.

Maybe I’d call Bridget later to check out the beach or do a little shopping downtown.

But as I strolled the manicured grounds between modern buildings of steel and glass, map in one hand, coffee in the other, I found myself looking over my shoulder and feeling the need to check out every student, just to be sure they weren’t Santiago in disguise or something. I couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes on me.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I groaned. My hands were full, so I walked over to a bench and set down my cup so I could dig for the phone.

I looked at the screen. Santiago. How did I know? I answered but didn’t say anything.

“Good morning. How’s your coffee?”

Shit. I spun around but saw only backpack-toting students, trees, and buildings. Son of a bitch.

I didn’t reply.

“The silent treatment again, I see,” he said.

That’s right, you psycho.

“So, you’re still upset then?” he asked.

Yep. You got it!

“I don’t blame you. That’s why I wanted you to know that it wasn’t supposed to be like this again.”

“Like what? You mysteriously showing up like a creepy stalker on my first day of college, ruining my life with your sick mind games, and destroying any chance I have of getting a date?”

There was an awkward silence before he responded. “Your father is coming soon. Yes?”

What the hell kind of answer was that? “Yes. Why?”

“Be ready.”

The call dropped and my blood pressure dropped right with it. I immediately dialed my father again, but it went to voicemail as expected. I hesitated for a moment, tempted to leave a scathing message, but hung up and dialed my mother again instead. The call also went straight to voicemail. “Mom. It’s me. We need to talk. Santiago is back. He’s saying I should ‘be ready’ for Dad’s visit. Do you know what’s going on?” I sighed loudly. “Call me, okay?”

I headed toward the bookstore, fuming. I was not going to let this happen. This was my life. Whatever weirdness was going on, whatever that “be ready” crap meant, I was not going to curl into a little ball and cower.

“You are not ruining my day!” I barked to an imaginary Santiago. Or maybe not. Maybe he could hear me.

I threw my coffee in the trash, got out my class syllabi, and marched into the crowded store.

It took me twenty minutes to cool off and find my way around, and another forty to find my books. Distracted and mumbling angrily under my breath, I went to the back of the line, which snaked around the entire edge of the store, and plunked my basket onto the floor. He’s not getting away with this. I don’t care if that bastard owns my dreams; he can’t have the daytime, too.