Hot New Neighbor (Alphalicious Billionaires 11)

I keep on doing my deep breathing thing while I ring the bell. Of course, there isn’t any answer. I do a quick glance around for cameras. It’s getting dark out, and I don’t see anything—no lights giving anything away. There isn’t even a security light on the house.

I don’t know what possesses me, but whatever it is, it’s probably the same craziness that drove me to the guy’s house last night in a fit of spider hysteria. Instead of putting my note in the mailbox, I lift up the flap. The package is right there, and it’s just so tempting. My hands itch like crazy, and I just act. I snatch up the package, wrapped in its white protective courier bag with the logo on the front. Holding it and my note in my hand, I make a mad dash for my house. I slam through the front door like Mr. Mob himself is hot on my heels.

I do up all the locks and force myself to sit my ass down on the couch. I grip the package tight, though it’s pretty amazing I can still hang onto it at all, given that I’m shaking so violently.

I glance at the package, expecting to see a name, but there isn’t anything there.

No name? Who sends a package with no name on it?

There is an address, of course. It just confirms my suspicions that something isn’t right. No one sends a package without a name on it. No. One.

I leap off the couch and dash to the kitchen. I practically claw at the knife block as I try and unleash the scissors from the middle. I’m shaking so hard that I make a mess of the packaging, but it doesn’t matter. I pull out a strange flat package and stare at it in surprise.

There isn’t a bloody appendage or a murder weapon or a bottle of cyanide or chloroform or a set of leather gloves or anything “murdery” or outright creepy.

No, this is really strange.

Because right there in my hand is a blow-up sex doll.

Yes, that’s right. Compressed into clear packing, I can clearly read the label. It’s one of those prank dolls people take to stags all the time. The cheap kind that isn’t really meant for actual use. I’d think they had the wrong house, but there’s a note taped onto the doll.

Since I know you’re not going to be getting laid any time soon while you’re hiding out, here’s a friend for you. And yes, I know this crosses every line of friendship, so don’t really use it. Seriously. For real. Stop. Don’t even think about it.

That’s it. The note is actually kind of funny, and it’s not threatening at all. In fact, it seems like a joke.

Okay, there’s no way this was meant to end up at Mr. Mob’s house. No. Freaking. Way. No guy who wraps his living room in plastic and trots around with pry bars will have friends who would have a real sense of humor.

I fumble for the packing and stare at the address. It’s obvious this was supposed to end up at the house. The very same house it did indeed end up at. Maybe it was a mistake. The guy just moved in a month ago. Maybe it was actually ordered for the previous family who lived in the house. I didn’t know them well, but from what I knew, it was a young couple with a baby. Not exactly the kind of person who would need to receive a sex doll.

Then there’s the part of the note that mentions hiding out.

That’s the part that kind of creeps me out. It sets off all sorts of alarms. Hiding out. Mr. Mob could be hiding out. What better cover to commit crimes than suburbia where everyone least suspects it? But really, what kind of criminal sends their criminal friend a sex doll? Unless they don’t know why they’re really hiding out. Or maybe that was just an excuse that Mr. Mob gave to his friends before he came out here to commit all sorts of nefarious deeds.

I don’t know. I’m no closer to knowing now that I just committed a felony myself and opened someone else’s mail.

I set the doll aside, determined to think more about this before I react again. I need to talk to Leanne, but after my call this morning, I know it’s best to wait until tomorrow to call her or even text her again.

Determined to deal with my other problem, I slide open the kitchen drawer and dig around until I find what I’m looking for—a meat mallet. It actually belonged to my grandma. We didn’t do a full cleanout of the house. We just donated her clothes and gave away the things my family didn’t think were sentimental. I kept almost all of the furniture and dishes and stuff. They remind me of her, and I like having them around.