How to make the handsome, brooding man across the street notice me.
Step one: Deliver baked goods to his front porch, even though he never answers his door and always returns the containers when I’m not home.
Step two: Slowly lose my mind as a whole year passes without ever running into him, no matter how hard I try.
Step three: Have my boudoir photos accidentally delivered to his mailbox instead of mine. Have him open the package. Then have him storm into my home for the most panty-melting scolding of my life.
Step four: Still figuring out step four.
Hans
I’m a dangerous man.
A man who has spent the last two decades removing so many souls from this earth that it’s a miracle my hands aren’t permanently stained red.
I’m a man who belongs in the shadows.
I certainly don’t belong in my pretty little neighbor’s bedroom when she’s not home, touching her things and inhaling her scent.
I shouldn’t follow her. Shouldn’t watch her. Because no number of cookies on my doorstep will change the fact that love isn’t an option for me.
