Page 2 of One Little Mistake

Max

The girl is sitting in a chair, eyeing me warily, while I stand across from her, holding out my passport.

“See? I’m Max Taylor. And here—these are the ownership papers for the apartment.”

I flip through a few more pages and shove the documents in front of her face.

Sure, I could’ve kicked her out without all this drama, but first of all—she’s pregnant, and with women like that, you’ve gotta be careful. And second—I’ve got way too many questions for her.

“What does it say? Read it.”

She leans in, squinting at the letters, frowns, then blinks in surprise.

“Harbor Street, number seven, apartment two-seventeen,” she reads aloud in a hoarse voice. “But that’s… that’s impossible.”

She looks up at me with those huge green eyes, clearly waiting for an answer. Funny thing is—I want one from her too.

She gets up and walks over to the dresser, grabs her phone, and starts scrolling.

“See? My boyfriend texted me the address. There’s no mistake.”

I stare at her like she’s lost her mind. Her boyfriend texted the address? What, does he live here too, and I somehow missed it?

I snatch the phone from her hands.

‘Harbor Street 7, apt. 217. Meet Nick at 2:30 p.m. He’ll give you the keys.’

“That was five months ago,” I say, stunned, noticing the timestamp. “You’ve been living here this whole time?”

“Uh-huh,” she nods, biting her full lips.

I scroll up, then down, scanning the messages. Mostly long texts from Erin, a few short replies from her so-called boyfriend.

“Well, that explains everything,” I say.

“What explains what?”

“You got played.”

“What?”

“He gave you a fake address because he never planned on sticking around.”

I nod toward her very pregnant belly. “Happens all the time. Bet you anything the name he gave you isn’t even real.”

“No. Max wouldn’t do that. I saw his driver’s license,” she says firmly.

“He texted you three times in total. And how long’s it been?”

I check the messages again, scrolling up the thread.

She snatches the phone from my hand and hugs it to her chest.

“There has to be an explanation.”

Her eyes dart around the room. She exhales shakily, then winces slightly, like she’s in pain.

“Such as?”

“He… he said he was busy. That the signal was bad.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. But what about the wrong address?”

“It was a mistake,” she whispers, almost inaudibly, and starts nervously pacing, her hand constantly rubbing her stomach.

“I’ll call him now. Try to get through. We’ll sort it out. Maybe the realtor messed things up—he was buying a new place right before he left.”

“No way. Unless Vivienne and her husband decided to cash in on me—but a meteor’s more likely to hit Earth.

You’ve been dumped. Deal with it, however harsh it sounds.

You can stay till morning, fine. But after that, pack your things and go deal with your fiancé yourself.

I didn’t come back home to play detective.

And now I’ll have to redo the whole damn home office. ”

I kick the wall with the toe of my sneaker and clench my fists in anger. So much for coming home.

“I don’t believe you,” Erin insists. Stubborn as a brick wall. “I talked to his sister. She’s been in this apartment before I moved in.”

“Don’t tell me you talked to Elena,” I say, holding my breath—and her face says it all. “Fantastic. Just fantastic.”

We fall silent, glaring at each other, both convinced we’re right.

I pretend there’s no stranger in my house, try to act normal: open the fridge—stuffed to the top—grab some sausages and juice, and still ignoring Erin, I enjoy my dinner. One good thing about this whole mess.

“By the way, the shirt’s mine too,” I say casually, scanning the kitchen to see if anything else has changed.

Her eyes fill with tears—just what I needed.

She paces the room nervously, one hand on her lower back, phone to her ear again and again. Then she disappears for a bit, before coming back. Eyes red from crying, lips bitten, face flushed.

She looks straight at me.

“Vivienne will confirm who’s telling the truth. Because she knows Max. The real Max.”

There’s a spark of determination in her eyes.

“Good idea. But it’s too late to bother the neighbors. We’ll wait till morning,” I say, trying to sound indifferent.

Erin snorts and leaves the kitchen again.

I lean back in the chair and rub my eyes.

What a surprise from the universe. Just insane.

I slowly poke at the sausages with my fork, going over a hundred versions of how this girl could’ve ended up in my house.

What if she really is a con artist? I should probably check if the safe is still here.

“Max?”

Her worried voice cuts through—and I meet her eyes, wide with fear.

“I think I’m in labor,” she says through tears, clutching her stomach and gasping.