Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
THERE’S A MAN… NO WAIT THERE’RE THREE
M y brother wants me gone. That truth nips at me as I take the stairs to my apartment, Wentworth trotting behind me. Outside of the dorms in undergrad, this has always been my home.
Opening the door, I step inside. This is my safe space. It’s where I picked up the pieces after Will. It’s where I write my stories.
The smell of cinnamon and vanilla greets me. “Did I leave a candle burning?” A crease forms on my brow.
Wentworth pushes past me, his tail wagging furiously. I step fully into the apartment and shut the door behind me. The ding of the timer pulls my attention to the kitchen, where a man stands in a Cinnamon Rolls Aren’t Just Pastries apron.
“Just in time!” He opens the oven and pulls out a tray. “Vanilla chai muffins from scratch. I had to improvise some of the ingredients. You really do need to restock your spice cabinet.”
“Who are…” Eyes wide, my pulse quickens. “Wentworth, come,” I hiss, motioning for him to come back to my side so we can make a quick escape.
Ignoring me, he scampers up to the unidentified assailant who has broken into my apartment to… Bake me muffins ? The stranger bends, offering ear scratches with his free hand.
“Wentworth.” Hissing, I inch backwards, hitting something hard.
Not something, but someone . I whirl, my hands raised in a defensive posture, the thud of my heart choking off my ability to speak.
Another man stands there. Similar to the one in my kitchen, he’s tall. But where chef burglar is lean with closely cropped blond hair, this man is broad-chested with thick chestnut hair and a suit that is straight out of a Jane Austen retelling.
“Dreadfully sorry,” he says in a buttery, smooth English accent.
“I…” Fear licks up my spine, and I lurch back.
I snap my fingers for Wentworth, but the lab ignores me and sits on his haunches in front of Kitchen Guy.
Worst guard dog. I peer around the room, looking for an exit. The Mr. Darcy look-a-like stands between me and the door.
“Lord James, you’re scaring her,” Kitchen Guy scolds warmly.
“Lord James?” I say, my breath ragged. Confusion and fear fight for purchase inside me.
He places his hand on his chest, indignation flashes in his green eyes. “I’m doing nothing of the sort, Mr. Baker.”
“You’re definitely scaring her.” Another low and growly voice filters into the room.
Spinning, I turn to find a beast of a man stalking toward me. His eyes are almost violet. A neat black beard accentuates his strong jawline. Something primal radiates from him, as if he’d put me over his shoulder and carry me away to have his way with me.
He sniffs the air, something wicked darkens his eyes. “I can smell it all over her. She’s like a scared rabbit.”
Oh god, is he going to eat me?! I lunge for the coffee table and grab the first thing I see. Lifting the remote control, I hold it in the air and swing it at them. “Don’t come any closer, or I’ll?—”
The bearded man smirks. “Mute us to death.”
“What do you want with me? Who are you? Are there more of you? Are you going to hurt me?” Each question is breathless.
Hands raised, Kitchen Guy rounds the counter. “Georgia, we’re not going to hurt you.”
“How do you know my name?” I aim the remote at him as if it’s a loaded pistol.
“Because we were sent here for you.”
“What?”
Lord James clears his throat. “Perhaps introductions are in order. I’m Lord James Everly, First Duke of Chamberlin.” He gestures to Kitchen Guy. “This is Mr. Baker.”
“You can call me Owen,” he says, a slight twang in his accent.
“And you can call me, Alpha,” bearded guy says, leaning against the kitchen island.
“Nobody is calling you that, Lars,” Lord James says, one thick eyebrow curved up.
“Oh, he’s Mr. Baker and I’m Lars.”
“Lars? Owen? Lord James?” I drop the remote, my chest heaving and vision spotty. “But those are the names of my…” Head shaking, I take two steps and…
My eyes flutter open. An achy twinge pulses between my brows. I lay in my bed, my head propped on a pillow and Wentworth’s heavy body draped over my legs like a furry blanket. Sunlight breaks into the room through half-open blinds.
“How did I get here?” Groaning, I rub the center of my forehead.
The last thing I remember is being in my living room with three men, their gazes fixed on me. Then pitch black. Did I faint? Had I really tried to fend them off with a remote control?
Other than the dull throb in my head, I appear to be unhurt. Squinting, I lift my head to scan the room. There’s no sign of my uninvited guests. Not Mr. Kitchen, the Mr. Darcy doppelganger, or the sexy wolfman. Correction; Owen, Lord James, and Lars.
But that can’t be.
Those are characters from my books, people I made up, not real people. Although, they are carbon copies of the three book boyfriends I’d spent months crafting. It’s as if they’d been pulled directly from my imagination.
Owen Baker is the owner of a small town bakery. Granted the last name and occupation weren’t my most clever idea.
Lars Hunt, the grumbly-voiced wolf pack alpha.
Lord James, the suave, slightly snooty, but very dashing duke.
“It’s not real. None of it,” I murmur to myself, taking in the quiet.
No muffled voices from the other room. No lingering scent of Lars’ woodsy aroma, sensation of Lord James’s firm chest against my back, or image of Owen’s sweet smile.
“It can’t be real. This has to be the booze.” My face scrunches, and I wince at the sharp twinge. How much Prosecco had Hope poured into my orange juice? The way I felt, the answer was way too much. “Stop drooling over fictional men.”
Whether it’s a hallucination or real-life stalkers impersonating my characters, my stomach shouldn’t swoop at the thought of these three men. Maybe I have been single too long. Well-adjusted adults don’t fixate on real versions of book boyfriends who break into their houses and bake muffins.
Those muffins did smell good, though. “Stop it,” I chide myself.
Scooting from beneath a snoring Wentworth, I sneak off the bed.
His undisturbed slumber lulls me into a sense of safety.
I’d like to think if I truly were in danger and this wasn’t just a tipsy delusion from too many mimosas, he’d be at the ready.
The way he obediently sat in front of Owen, begging for treats, gives me pause.
“Maybe I should call Rem, just in case.”
The anxiety that prickles beneath my skin overpowers any hesitancy to call my older brother. No doubt this would feed into his narrative about me being unsettled. Settled people don’t imagine book characters coming to life and being in their apartments. Still…
I tip my head toward the bedstand, finding it empty besides one of my moleskin notebooks, a Captain Picard bobblehead, and a small replica Tiffany lamb. My phone, which normally sits there, is nowhere in sight.
With quiet footsteps, I move to the door and place my ear against it.
Just to confirm this is only a booze-fueled dream and not the start of my very own episode of a True Crime or Why-Choose Dark Romance.
Ignoring the clench in my core at the idea of the latter, I lean into option A.
The thump between my eyes tips the scale to thinking this is all booze-induced.
The door creaks open and I tentatively poke my head out.
My nose wrinkles at the faint aroma of vanilla and cinnamon.
A plate of muffins rests on the coffee table.
James sits, his muscular frame properly straight, on the couch, a Real Men Read Romance mug in his hand.
Lars leans against the windowsill, his gaze fixed outside as if standing guard. And Owen is folding my laundry.
“What the …” I mutter, eyes blinking.
“Our lady has awakened.” Lord James rises and offers a bow.
Lars faces me, and Owen raises his head. All three men’s gazes are trained on my face.
Lars sniffs. “Still a rabbit.”
“You’re real,” I yelp, heart racing. Jumping back, I slam the door.
Crap! There isn’t a lock on the door. I press my body against it, praying they don’t break it down. My gaze jumps around the room for something– anything –to use as a weapon or a barricade. All I see is a sleeping Wentworth sprawled atop my bed. Terrible guard dog!
My focus drops to the pink ruffled bed skirt. “Justice’s Arm,” I let out a shaky breath.
Thanks to Rem’s overprotectiveness, a baseball bat is tucked beneath the bed.
He’d given it to me the day we swapped living spaces.
“I’m just a backyard away, but use Justice’s Arm until I get there,” he’d directed, handing me the battered wooden bat.
How funny that a man who worried about my safety on the other side of the backyard is the same man who wants me to move out.
“Focus, Georgia. You’re either having a breakdown or are about to be murdered by sexy book boyfriend look-a-likes.”
Jaw clenched, I reach for the bed, trying to remain against the door.
There might as well be an entire backyard between me and it.
In the time it may take me to get the bat, they could breach the flimsy door standing between me and them.
The bat may help me fight them off, but I don’t want to risk hand-to-hand combat with three men.
A gentle rap sounds at the door. “Georgia, it’s Owen.”
“This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.” Head shaking, I close my eyes. Somehow, I’m six again believing that if I close my eyes the nightmare will vanish. Only, instead of a monster, I want three very attractive men to disappear.
“My lady, I assure you we mean no harm,” Lord James coaxes, an air of command in his smooth timbre.
“She’s still scared,” Lars says. “It’s all over her.”
A loud smack reverberates through the door. “Stop smelling her. It’s ungentlemanly,” Lord James scolds. “Dogs are for the hunt, not for wooing ladies.”
Wooing ladies ?
“Want to find out what dogs like me can do, Lord Fancy Pants?” Lars grits.
“Beyond chewing my boots, I doubt you can do much harm,” he says haughtily.
“I’ll shove that boot up your?—”