Page 74 of The Casualty of Us (Philosophies of the Heart Duet #1)

A giggle almost escapes me as I lean up against the wall beside the bookshelf I have pushed out from it, settling in to totally fuck with him. “I really don’t know what to say right now.”

“Freckles—”

“I mean, of all of the things.”

“O, wait—”

“I can’t believe you would—”

“It was just a brownie!”

“Do this without me.” His words come to a stop, and I fight the giggle that still wants to bubble up, giving him some of the truth to the joke that bothers me instead.

“I mean, you keep having firsts without me, and I keep giving you mine.” I pause, some shred of insecurity rising with it all and leaving me adding. “Seems a little unfair.”

Not really sure if I’m joking or not now.

A beat passes before his voice comes across the phone softly, “Ophelia Sage.”

“Stop it,” I snort.

“You can’t even see me.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Okay, well, there are two points to consider.” He laughs quietly. “One, I took the plunge with that particular substance when you were thirteen and probably pining after Kyler, so let’s call that one fair, yeah?”

I scowl at the logic there before muttering, “Whatever.”

“And two…” He pauses for so long that I’m about to ask if he passed out when his voice softens again. “Your firsts mean more to me than mine ever did, okay?”

I blink at the picture taped to the back of the bookshelf.

The one that already had maps and my handwritten notes plastered across it from over the summer.

Timelines on the top with questions below that followed by maps and routes and any scrap of evidence that’s floating around the internet.

My own little crime board that outlines pretty much everything I know regarding my kidnapping, with the note I picked up two days ago taped to the center now.

The picture of me and Hayes and Ollie leaving the park after our run the day I left the book there, right underneath it.

I look back to the note, reading over the scrawl there for probably the thousandth time.

There’s no room for three,

Him or me,

Either way, the game starts in—

One, two, three.

“I know that,” I whisper back. It’s why even though I hate that he’s had all his firsts with other people, ultimately it doesn’t really matter when it comes down to it.

“I know that.” The words leave me more strongly this time and I roll my eyes at my sappiness.

“Sorry, I started my period today, and it’s got me feeling weird. ”

Using the ready-made excuse to my advantage.

“Oh.” A beat passes before he tries. “Is there anything I can do?”

The question is tinged with an uncharacteristic unsureness that has me answering with a lift of my lips. “No, I’ll be okay.”

He pauses again before pressing. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” I sigh, staring at the image of him in front of me and hating myself deep down just a little bit for pulling him into this. All of it leaving me mixed up enough to confess, “Yeah, I just miss you. I can’t wait to see you.”

“Freckles.” His voice drops with the intimate rasp, and it has my stomach flipping for a whole different reason before he tacks on, “Why don’t you come to Thanksgiving with me next year?” like it’s no big deal.

“Pardon?”

Another quiet laugh leaves him. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” he cajoles. “I dare you.”

“Well.” I stare at the picture with part of my mind trying to figure out exactly where he had to be to take it from that angle. “How could I say no to that?”

Trying to slide into his mind and view myself through the lens of the predator.

“That’s my girl.” His voice drops with the statement like his mind is on decidedly more pleasurable things before he clears his throat. “I got to go, my dad is calling. I’ll text you before I take off tomorrow, though.”

“Okay.” I suck in a quick breath. “I’ll probably beat you back, but we’ll see.”

I wonder if I can maybe bribe one of the photography kids to tell me what kind of camera or equipment this was shot with. If it’s top-tier stuff, then it might be—

“All right, baby, see you soon.”

“See you soon, lov—” I choke on the word to stop it, fervently hoping it comes across the phone as something like a cough right up until the silence drags on too long and his voice finally comes through again.

“Freckles?”

And the way it’s full of nothing but happy amusement makes me panic.

“I have to go.”

“Got something stuck in your throat there?”

“See you soon.”

“Ophelia.” He laughs openly. “Calm—”

“Text me when you land too,” I rush out before pulling the phone away from my ear and practically shouting, “Night.”

I end the call before he can unintentionally have me confessing anything else like the crime board I’m currently staring at with a picture of him on it. That would just be the cherry on top at this point.

Did I really just—

Fuck. I totally did, or almost did, I guess.

It has my brows falling, knowing that just because it slipped out like a habit doesn’t make it any less true. That I’ve known for a while now, but the practical side of me has been pushing to let it sit for a bit longer. Let it settle and deal with the stalker mess first before addressing it.

Fuck.

I scowl at the back of the bookshelf, lifting my phone to snap several pictures of things that I can work on more when I get back to school.

Only a few weeks left until Christmas break now, which is why I push the bookshelf back into place, the fact that half my books are back at school making it possible.

The timeline of things drives me to walk back over to my vanity and pick up the pen I left there earlier, staring down at the pretty stationery with my initials embossed on it that was a gift from my mother.

One that she would definitely not approve of my current use for, but I thought it provided a nice touch.

Especially since he seems to be set on making the tone of his sick game a romantic one.

But which “him” is he talking about, though?

And does it even really matter when it comes down to it? The threat there is implicit without being explicit, but it’s still completely unacceptable in both of their cases.

I run through the responses I’ve been debating all day one last time before going with the one my gut told me first. The most important thing here.

Because no matter what the game is, I can’t outplay him without knowing the rules.

I have to figure out how to twist them to suit my needs instead and hope he’s just psycho enough to consider them binding.

How he reacts when he finds out I’m not exactly abiding by whatever they’re going to be, though… that’s unpredictable.

It all is, really. I don’t know enough about him yet. And this…as risky as it is, it makes sense. It gives me the peek I need into his head.

So I blow out a slow breath, writing my response carefully and making sure my pointed writing is prettier than usual as well.

Show me it’s a game worthy of my time if you want my attention.

PS. I’ll need some rules because, as you know…I play to win.

Putting the earnest back on him and challenging him all at once.

Hypothesizing that some part of his obsession was probably triggered by a need to prove himself and then fed by the elevation of my status in the media circus that followed the kidnapping.

I can’t see any other reason for making this a game.

It might have even played a part in what led to the kidnapping to begin with but that would mean that the entire original motivation for it needs to be reassessed.

But it’s that fascination I’m counting on, because it will trigger that need in him to prove himself regardless of the fucked-up circumstances.

A play before doing so would essentially be an emasculation of himself in a sense, and I’m guessing his ego won’t allow that.

Especially considering the weird courtship aspect of all this.

He’ll want to see himself as worthy whenever it all comes to a head and the game has been played to the end.

I sign the note with a little flourish and pick it up, blinking down at it once before tucking it neatly into the matching envelope.

Scrawling the address for the PO box across the front and sealing it shut.

Pressing the stamp down in the upper right corner in preparation for dropping it in whatever random mailbox I happen to come across first tomorrow and tucking it into the pocket of my jacket.

I swallow hard before flicking the lock on my door and heading straight across the hall to Ollie’s room, only to find him still drowsing in that post-Thanksgiving coma.

All laid up in his bed with his mouth open and practically asking to be messed with.

A grin pulls at my lips, and I sprint the rest of the way to his bed before launching myself onto it.

His eyes fly open as I land on him with a laugh and the breath rushes out of him loud enough to fill the air.

“Goddammit,” he grumbles, rolling me off none too gently onto the mattress next to him before closing his eyes again. “Go to sleep, pest.”

“Wake up.” I reach over and flick his nose, waiting until his eyes crack to grin. “Want to go see if we can smuggle a bottle of wine and finish off Thanksgiving properly?”

“And to think”—his eyes open a little more—“people would assume I’m the bad influence.”

I scoff. “Don’t think I don’t remember being the distraction for your little mimosa expedition during the parade this morning.”

His crooked grin spreads. “Yeah, thanks for that.”

“Come on.” I roll my eyes, grabbing for the pillow behind me and smacking him in the face with it. “Bet we can steal some pie too, and then it’ll really be a party.”

“Fine,” he mumbles from underneath the pillow. “But only for the pie.”

That’s how my mom finds us an hour later too, making weak attempts to hide our wine in coffee mugs outside and half of a pecan pie left between us with Ollie spraying whipped cream into his mouth as I snort a laugh that has me choking on the cabernet.

She steps through the back door with a big white bag at her side, immediately lifting a brow at the sight of us and assessing the situation before shaking her head.

I try to quell my giggles as Ollie swallows down the whipped cream ridiculously, and she walks the rest of the way over to us, setting the bag on the table next to the pie before looking at me.

“You have a delivery.”

I suck down a breath to stop the final spurt of laughter, finally getting out, “What?”

“This came with it.” A smile plays on her lips as she passes a note over to me. “We’ll discuss your liberation of the wine cabinet in the morning.”

“Fair.” I nod, taking the note as the smell of Chinese fills the air and reading it quickly.

Since the ice cream places aren’t open on Thanksgiving.

Miss you too, Freckles. Feel better.

“Goddammit,” I sigh as a silly smile grows over my face.

Stealing my twin’s favorite curse in place of the feeling I stopped myself from naming earlier even as he snorts, “Such a suck up.”

Stupid fucking rock star baby.

I’m totally in love with him.