HANS: Alliance Series Book Four(3)

It was too much.

Hans was too much.

So I said the only thing I could manage. I’m Cassie, your new neighbor.

He didn’t look happy. Not before I said it, and even less so after I said it. But he did reply, with what I’ve had to assume is his first name.

Hans.

Hans, the Scandinavian fantasy I didn’t know I had. Please, pretty please, swing me up over your shoulder and carry me off to your bedroom. We can pretend it’s a Viking encampment. You’re the main warrior dude, and I’m the princess you just stole from your enemy to claim as your own…

I turn off the water and squeeze my eyes shut as I pat my face dry with a clean towel.

Of course, none of that stuff happened. Instead of stealing and ravishing me, Hans dropped my hand, slammed his truck door, strode into his garage, and hit the button to shut the overhead door without so much as a glance over his shoulder for a second look at me.

Quite the ding to thee old self-esteem.

But after that wildly successful first meeting, I figured I’d win him over with baked goods.

And thus began our yearlong game of cat and mouse.

Though, I’m not really sure who’s who in our situation.

Because I catch glimpses of him. Hans pulling his truck straight into his garage, Hans pulling out of his garage, Hans walking back from his mailbox with strides too long and fast for me to ever accidentally meet him while heading out to check on my own mail—trust me, I’ve tried. So I know he’s still alive. And that he still lives there. But he never answers the door.

Not once.

I turn off the light and enter my bedroom.

Stripping off my shorts and underwear, I toss my bra on the floor and dig out a pair of sleep shorts.

Technically the shirt I wore over to Hans’s house is a pajama top, but with a bra, it looks like any other tank top. And it’s not like he saw me anyway.

I turn off my bedside lamp and drop into bed.

Time to scroll recipes while I wonder if Hans actually eats what I leave for him or if he just throws it all away and returns the empty container.





CHAPTER 3





Hans





When the final light in her house turns off, I wait another forty-seven minutes.

She’s always asleep within forty-five minutes, but I like to be certain.

With a groan, I push out of my chair and turn off the monitors. My knives are as sharp as they’re gonna get tonight, and I have food to retrieve.

I look through the little crescent window at the top of my front door, double-checking that no new lights are on across the street, then I open the door and scoop up the rectangular glass container before shutting and locking it again.

As always, there’s a yellow Post-it note on the top of the lid.

Chocolate chip zucchini cookies.

Even as I trace my finger over the lettering, I can feel my nose crinkling.

I’ve heard of zucchini bread, but not cookies. And the bread has me skeptical enough.

Rolling my eyes at myself, I carry the cookies into my little kitchen and set them on the counter.

After carefully setting the Post-it off to the side, the lid lifts easily, and with it comes the smell of chocolate and wet vegetables.

I sigh.

Instead of looking like normal cookies, these look like damp green hockey pucks that have lost their shape along the way. But when I lift one out, it surprisingly holds together.

It’s also heavier than I expected.

“God dammit.” I curse my growing need to consume it, even as I lift the cookie and take a bite.

My mouth pulls into a frown, but I force myself to keep chewing.

It’s… not good.

I look at the puck, seeing a little clump of unmixed flour that I’ve bitten through, and I take another bite.

The overall wetness of the cookie is off-putting. But the taste is even worse.

I shove the rest of it into my mouth.

For someone who bakes so much, Cassandra is not getting any better.

I move to my fridge and pull out a stick of butter.

It’s too hard to be spreadable, so I slice off little squares and set them on top of the second cookie, then take a large bite.

Slightly better.

Another bite, and some of the cookie juice drips onto my shirt.

“Fuck,” I grumble around my mouthful of the shredded vegetable bullshit.

After shoving the rest of the butter-topped cookie into my mouth, I rip a paper towel free from the roll sitting next to the sink and wipe at my shirt.

I eye the other four cookies still left in the container.

I don’t want to eat them.

They’re hardly edible.

But I’m curious to see how Cassandra photographed them for her food blog.

It didn’t take me long to find the blog, though I was a little surprised that she only started it after moving in next door. No matter how awful the creation is, she always makes them look appealing in the photo, but since she’s gifted me a container of every item she’s ever blogged about, I know the photos lie.

I don’t want to eat the rest.

But I have to.

After moving to the cupboard on the other side of the fridge, I open the door and take out the half-empty jar of peanut butter.

I scoop out a spoonful and do my best to spread it over the top of the third hockey puck.