The Catch by Amy Lea EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Amy Lea
- Language: English
- Genre: Multicultural & Interracial Romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 3.3 MB
- Price: Free
IF I WERE a character in a classic slasher film, I’d be the first to die. That
sounds morbid, but hear me out.
First, I lack the necessary endurance to run long distances without being
caught. I have no sense of direction, to the point where I regularly get lost
in my own condo parking garage. On any given day, I’m usually alone,
leaving the killer ample time to strike when I’m vulnerable. And when
placed in high-pressure situations, I tend to make rash, ill-advised decisions.
Case in point: when being pursued, my first instinct is to trap myself
inside the tight confines of the condo elevator. Rookie mistake.
“Melanie! Meeelanieee, wait for me!” calls an all-too-familiar, earpiercing voice.
I frantically press the Close button no less than eleven times, heart
hammering against my chest wall. Picture the slasher scene where the
woman hides in a closet as the killer ponders his next move, mouthbreathing heavily on the other side of the door.
As the click-clack of footsteps on marbled tiles grows dangerously near,
the elevator doors begin to close. Bless.
Just one more inch.
Half an inch.
And then they stop.
A sliver shy of sealing shut, the doors abruptly reopen like a record
scratch. My whole body folds inward, desperate to seek refuge like a turtle
avoiding all reality in its protective shell. On second thought, turtles do not
have the gift of speed. And in the face of my pursuer’s demented smile, one
needs to run, or at least power walk.
One could say I’m being a touch dramatic. See, my pursuer isn’t really a
crazed, axe-wielding serial killer who wants to hack me into tiny pieces.
He’s my prepubescent neighbor—Ian Montgomery.
“Melanie. You look ravishing.”
“Hi, Ian.” I summon a sweet smile, taking stock of his short-sleeved
button-down. It hangs off his lithe frame, juxtaposed with his creased
khakis, which are two inches too short since his winter growth spurt.
A man in tapered joggers takes advantage of the holdup, rushing in
behind Ian before the doors close, sealing us in together.
“The color of your top brings out your suntan,” Ian tells me, his gaze
hovering dangerously close to my cleavage. To be fair, it’s at his eye level
since he’s approximately four feet nine.
I respond to Ian with a low “Thank you,” shifting a thick lock of hair
over my chest like a protective blanket before shuffling to the right, my
Greek take-out bag tucked snugly under my arm.
Ian wastes zero time reclaiming the dead space. “I also liked your bikini
photo from the other day.”
My cheeks burst into flame when Joggers shoots me an accusatory look
over his meaty shoulder. Ian is referring to my latest post—a beach photo
shoot wherein I attempted to channel the raw sex appeal of Daniel Craig in
Casino Royale. Particularly that slo-mo scene where he emerges seductively
from the water, beads of moisture shimmering over his taut, suspiciously
hairless bod. As it turns out, I have the charisma of a potato compared to
James Bond.
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