The moment I shut the door, I let out a soft laugh, the kind of quiet, self-satisfied chuckle you only make when you know you've gotten away with something outrageous. The box was tucked snugly under my arm, and I made my way toward the living room with what I thought was all the stealth of a thief in the night.
I was halfway there when I felt it. That heavy, unspoken tension in the air. My instincts screamed at me to look up, and when I did, I froze.
Camila stood in the middle of the room, her arms crossed, her blouse still clinging damply to her skin. Her hair hung in soft, dishevelled waves around her flushed face, but it was her eyes that stopped me cold.
They were narrowed, glinting like shards of ice. Cold. Calculating. Dangerous.
...And locked on me.
"Well, well." She began, her voice low and sharp, each word laced with venom. "Look who's crawling back silently like he did nothing wrong. Care to explain yourself, Mr Kafka?"
