Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
No, thank you.
I sneak another peek at my phone: 2:23
Shit.
I do the sleep math, mentally calculating the hours I can rest if I fall asleep now. Four hours and some change. Four and a half if I can shut off my brain. Just enough to wake up feeling like I was gently hit by a truck…
Ha!
I sigh, flipping to my stomach and yanking the pillow over my head, only to hear—
Thud.
I freeze.
“What was that?” I whisper to no one.
I lift the pillow just enough to hear better.
Scrape. Tap.
The house is supposed to be silent.
And yet…
I sit up now, straining to listen. Another sound. Like a sigh—or maybe a quiet laugh? Could be Nugget. Could be one of the guys getting up to pee. Could be a ghost, but let’s not go there because I really don’t have the emotional bandwidth to be haunted on top of everything else.
My pulse kicks up, which certainly won’t help me sleep.
I strain to listen, sheets pooling around my waist. Waiting for the next sound.
Tiptoeing…
A predator? Home-invader?
That was a murder-y sound…
“This is it. This is how I die.” Hair in braids. No bra. Wearing the ugliest pair of underwear I own.
I scramble out of bed like a gremlin, nearly trip over my own feet, and fumble with the door handle. My heart is tap dancing in my throat as I bolt into the hallway.
Do I grab a weapon? Chair? Hairbrush?
Hockey stick!
Yes!
That’s what I need and there’s only one place I can think to grab one.
I sprint for Turner’s room like a woman possessed, thanking god along the way that I barely have ten feet to go.
I don’t knock. I don’t hesitate.
I launch myself through his door like it’s the finish line of a horror movie chase scene—dramatic, breathless, absolutely convinced that death is on my heels. The door bangs against the wall as I scramble in, eyes wide, heart pounding, limbs flailing like I’m made of pool noodles.
It’s dark inside. Peaceful. Serene.
Turner is asleep, because of course he is.
He’s a man.
This is what men do.
Snoring softly, arm flung over his face, the sheets twisted low on his hips, chest rising and falling like this is a freaking sleep number commercial.
He doesn’t even stir as I barrel toward him.
I trip over one of his shoes, stub my toe on what might be a dumbbell, and curse so loudly I shock myself—but I don’t stop. I leap, Olympic long-jump style, and belly flop into the mattress beside him with a dramatic oof, limbs akimbo, braids airborne.
The bed rocks like a boat in a hurricane.
“Jesus Christ!” he shouts. “What the fuck!”
Oh good! He’s awake!
I roll toward him, eyes wide, heart thumping. “There’s someone in the house,” I whisper.
He blinks at me like I’m speaking underwater. “Huh?”
“There’s a noise. Scraping.” I breathe on him, face so close to his I can feel his breath on me. “Tapping. Um. Someone is creeping slowly through the kitchen.”
“What time is it?” He tries to reach for his phone, but I won’t let him.
“Where is your sense of urgency?!” Even to my own ears, I sound panicked.
“Poppy.” His voice is a sleepy rumble. “If someone was creeping through the kitchen, Nugget would’ve gone full Cujo by now.”
That is such a lie.
“He probably made friends with the intruder,” I whisper. “He’s not an attack dog.”
At all.
Not even a little.
Turner rubs a hand over his face. “Okay. Fine. Stay here. I’ll go check—”
I make a strangled noise and launch myself into his side. “Hell no! Don’t leave me alone!”
His chuckle is a low rumble deep in his chest. “I can’t go out there and stay in here at the same time, silly goose.”
Silly goose.
Now why in the world would that phrase make my stomach flutter at a time like this?
Before I can unpack that emotional crisis, a loud thud echoes down the hallway—followed by a clumsy, off-key whistle.
We both freeze. My eyes go wide.
Turner lifts a brow. “Definitely not a murderer.”
Another thud. A door creaks.
And then—
“Shhhhhh, Nugget, stop looking at me like that,” a familiar voice slurs. “I’m not throwing the ball. Go back to bed.”
A second voice—higher-pitched and giggly—adds, “I’m hungry. You said you were gonna make me grilled cheese!”
Then—
“Oops. Wrong room.”
I scramble backward just as Cash—shirtless, with a ball cap on backwards and a young woman hanging onto his arm like she’s afraid of gravity—or can’t stand in heels—leans against the doorframe of Turner’s room.
They’re both clearly intoxicated…
My shoulders relax as Cash squints at us. “Dudes. Am I hallucinating or are you two in bed together?”
Turner leans against his headboard. “It’s two-thirty in the morning.”
Cash tries to focus on us through bleary eyes. “Is she crying?”
“No I am not crying, you asshole!” I chuck a decorative pillow toward him. It misses. “You scared the shit out of us!”
“She thought you were a murderer,” Turner deadpans.