Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
I’m dead.
Someone broke into Lovie’s house and has a weird fetish for sleeping in guest bedrooms before pillaging old ladies. There was a Criminal Minds episode about this exact scenario, I’m pretty sure.
“Stop screaming,” the probably-a-murderer hisses.
Oh God. What if I woke Lovie up and she comes running right into the middle of this shitstorm? If I don’t know what the hell is going on, there’s no way an eighty-one-year-old Alzheimer’s patient will.
As my scream dies, my knees scrabble for purchase, connecting with something squishy. A heavy oof follows, then a muffled groan.
I think I just kneed a killer in the balls.
Oops …?
For as fast as the contact was, it’s over faster. In the pitch black I hear a violent squeak of the bed frame, a muttered “ Fuck ,” and a subsequent loud thud.
The intruder has fallen out of bed. Now’s my chance.
I scramble across the mattress, flip on the lamp, and come face to face with—
Oh.
Okay, hear me out. I know you can’t judge a book by its cover, but this man certainly doesn’t look like an intruder. Unless we’re talking about Ted Bundy.
The man in front of me looks like he could wreck me in a very different kind of way. Make me scream, make the bed frame squeak … sort of how we were a few seconds ago. A shiver bolts up my spine, and I cross my arms over my tightening nipples, wishing I could force myself to sleep in a bra for once in my life.
There’s something almost familiar about him. For a second I wonder if I’m the one with the memory problems, because there’s no way I would have willingly forgotten this man.
In the glow of the bedside lamp, made sallow by the dusty yellow lampshade, his eyes are dark as midnight, two glowing onyx orbs. They’re framed by bushy eyebrows, and shadows around the edges of his face and mouth clue me in to hints of dark stubble. That very mouth is pressed into a hard line.
His posture is a reflection of his face, harsh angles with no give. He rises to his feet, and when he crosses his arms over his chest, I can’t tell whether it’s because his nipples are also hard or because he’s aggravated.
My eyes trace the rest of his body, clad in a soft-looking white T-shirt and plaid pajama pants. I snag on muscular arms and toned thighs before completing my perusal.
Cue the record scratch.
Socks. The psychopath is wearing socks. In bed.
My forehead scrunches as I find his onyx eyes again. “What the hell are you wearing?” Maybe—definitely—not the time, considering there is a literal stranger in my bedroom, but an important question nonetheless.
He leans against my dresser, crossing his ankles to match his arms. This entire man is cross. Beautifully, frustratingly cross. “They’re called pajamas,” he says, his voice deep and scratchy. “Most people wear them to sleep.”
Smart ass. “I meant the socks. You sleep in those things?”
He studies me harshly, uncomfortably, the way I just studied him. One dark eyebrow tips upward. “You sleep in those?” he asks, staring at my Dalmatian sleep shorts.
Under his scrutiny, they don’t seem long enough to classify as shorts. I tug down my oversized T-shirt. “I get hot at night.”
Wait a minute. Why am I explaining myself to this man? This stranger who’s infiltrated my Lovie’s house and was sleeping in my bed and using my perfectly fluffed pillows. I reach for my phone, dropped during our scuffle.
“I’m calling the police.”
“Don’t,” he says, and his insistent tone makes my thumb pause over my screen.
“You’re a stranger. You could be a … a bad guy!”
Yes, okay, let’s keep talking like we’re in kindergarten. Great intimidation tactics we’ve got going for us tonight.
The man sighs like he’s already had enough of my shit. I know I’ve had enough of his. Seriously, the audacity . He holds up his hands to show me they’re empty and moves toward me slowly. Even still, my back is against the wall by the time he grabs the wallet on the nightstand and tosses it to me.
As I open it, he says, “Adam Wheeler. Home health nurse. I work for AngelCare.”
The gears in my mind, which had started to shut down for the night, whir back to life. “Angie didn’t say anything about this.” Maybe she would have if I’d given her the chance. I was all gas, no brakes today.
I shake my head, intent to stay on track. Adam’s wallet is thin, fraying at the edges, and contains only three cards. Driver’s license, credit card, and some kind of credentials. They all match.
His license picture is a younger and less grizzly version of the man standing at my bedside. He probably got his toxic masculinity all over my sheets. I bet he smells like pine cones and … ugh, a bar or something.
Okay, so he is who he says he is. It still doesn’t explain what he’s doing here now. At—kill me, please—one thirteen in the morning.
“Your turn,” he says, flipping his hand so his palm faces the ceiling.
“Elle. Annoyed granddaughter of this home’s owner.” I set his wallet back on the nightstand and look at him expectantly. I hope he’s satisfied, because it’s all he’s getting.
He isn’t. He just keeps holding out his hand.
It takes a second to catch his meaning. “You want me to show you my ID ?” As attractive as he is, his attitude negates it all. Every time he speaks, his cockiness costs him.
His mouth pulls up in an arrogant smirk. “How do I know you’re not the … what’d you call me? A ‘ bad guy ’?”
I could probably smack that shit-eating grin right off his face if I leaned forward far enough. “Yes, because all criminals wear polka-dotted pajama pants.”
His bark of laughter is low, grumbly. It vibrates through me, even halfway across the room. “Those are not pants.”
I fiddle with the hem of my shorts again, resisting the urge to tug. If I pull them down any farther, they’ll slip over my ass.
Adam gestures with his hand again. “Come on, cough it up.”
“If I show you my ID, can I go to sleep?”
“I’ll consider it.”
I worked my purse into my duffel earlier to have less to carry on the train, and I’m regretting that decision now. I’m not a big blusher, not like Rita from the train or my best friend Liss, but as I lean over my things and come up with my wallet a minute later, all the blood in my body has relocated to my face.
“You dropped something,” he says, and somehow he’s haughtier than he was a few seconds ago.
On the floor by my feet is my bright-blue vibrator.
I try to snatch it off the floor but fumble, and it seems to fall in slow motion, landing on the button and buzzing to life.
I get it now. I must have sleepwalked at some point last night, under about five ladders, twirling an umbrella inside my apartment. The umbrella hit a mirror or thirteen, and I’ve used up my entire bad-luck quota for the rest of eternity. That, or this is the most realistic nightmare I’ve ever had.
Since there’s no more free real estate on my face for embarrassment, my flush crawls down my neck. Bending down to grab the offensive item—which, for the record, has never done me dirty this way—I catch a glimpse down my too-big T-shirt. It gapes wide enough that Adam probably got a free peep show. And yeah, I’m flushed all the way to my nipples.
My fingers aren’t working, can’t find the button to turn off the toy. Adam watches me wordlessly. It’s both unsettling and infuriating. He could have pretended not to see my personal effects. That would have been the nice thing to do.
I’m beginning to think Adam Wheeler is not a nice man.
I give up and take out the battery, because the damn thing will not stop buzzing, and drop it inside my bag. Zip it shut for good measure. He’s still waiting, hand outstretched and stifling a smile. I slap my ID into his palm as hard as I can.
Adam’s body language is all chill as he glances at it. “What’s your full name?”
Indignation steels my spine, and I have to unclench my jaw to answer. “Carolyn Michelle Monroe.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“You can’t be serious. Give it back.” I lunge for it, but he lifts his hand above his head.
“Ah-ah,” he tsks. “Birthday?”
“This is ridiculous.” I reach for it anyway, and my body presses against sharp hard lines even through two layers of fabric.
My ear is near his throat now, which is why I hear him swallow.
“Here,” he says, bringing it within reach before our bodies connect more fully.
I nearly thank him. That would be stupid, considering I could have called the cops on him five times over by now. I’m still not sure why I haven’t.
Adam’s not smiling anymore. The look he’s giving me isn’t playful or teasing or flirty the way his grin was. This is deeper, more introspective. Vulnerable, almost.
“I still don’t understand what you’re doing here now,” I say, crossing my arms like I’m cold, even as sweat threatens to break out along my hairline. I’d forgotten how toasty old ladies keep their houses. It’s got to be eighty degrees in here. He’s wearing socks despite this, which only further cements my psychopath theory.
He sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You might as well get comfortable.”
At this rate, I will never go to sleep. I eye the bed speculatively, not because I don’t want to sit—that honestly sounds quite lovely—but because I don’t get it. Adam has taken command of the room, and I’ve just … let him. This isn’t a situation I find myself in often. Ever, if I can help it. Things usually go according to plan. My plan. And when they don’t, I make a new plan as soon as possible.
Maybe it’s his eyes that make me inch toward the bed. Now that mine have adjusted to the lighting, I can see they’re not actually black but dark, dark blue. Lake Michigan in the heart of summer, and just as inviting.
Once I’m perched on the corner of the mattress, he tips his chin in a gesture that my sleep-deprived brain classifies as a nod.
“Like I said,” he starts, “I work for AngelCare. We provide in-home health services for elderly patients who—”
“I know about the company.” I hired the company. “But let’s skip to the part where you’re here in the middle of the night, sleeping in my bed.” I narrow my eyes, but that’s too close to sleep, and I can’t do that right now. I force them open again. I already have a headache tomorrow.
“Lovie was recently upgraded from a daily check-in to a twenty-four/seven watch,” he says, shifting under my gaze. Maybe I should try the narrow-and-widen thing more often; that’s the first thing I’ve done that’s affected him. “Angie wanted someone to start as soon as possible, and that someone ended up being me. There’s not much more to it than that.”
Sighing, I give him a half shrug as a concession. “Fine. But the bed thing?”
“Obviously, if I had known you were coming, I would have slept on the couch.” His eyes spark brighter. “But Lovie insisted I have this room. She said her granddaughter never comes to stay anymore, that she lives all the way in Chicago .” He studies me for a stretching second. “That’s obviously you.”
Pain and regret lance through me like swords, sharp and direct.
I wet my lips, picking a loose thread in the blanket to avoid looking at his face, which I fear is full of judgment. “Oh.”
I don’t know Adam from, well, Adam. But the idea of him thinking me an ungrateful city slicker who detests her hometown and only came home because she had nothing better to do feels an awful lot like guilt.
It’s all too much. My eyes water, the burning a clear indication I’ve been awake far too long. I only cry when I’m mad and when I absolutely cannot help it. Most of the time, I’d really rather not.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says, leaning forward, elbows on knees. My eyes dart up in time to see his mouth tip downward, his bottom lip between his teeth. Or maybe my tears are distorting things, the way funhouse mirrors do. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t upset me,” I say, too quickly to be true. “I don’t even know you.”
If he notices my lie, he doesn’t show it. He dips his chin once in acknowledgment, but the groove between his brows remains as I blink away moisture. At least I’ve found something in him to appreciate.
I stand, desperate to get as much distance from this situation as possible. “Can we sort the rest out in the morning? This day has been a hundred years long, and I’d really like to go to bed now.”
For a second, he just watches me, that unreadable expression muddling his gaze. I resist the urge to give him a hurry up hand motion. Or do something especially stupid, like touch him.
“I bet,” he drawls, straightening up.
“So …” I say. He’s still not moving. “Do you think you could …” I look pointedly at the mattress. When he remains immobile, I gesture with both hands before they fall and slap my bare thighs. “Can I have my bed?”
“Finders keepers for tonight?” he says, one eyebrow arching. “And we can ‘sort the rest out in the morning.’ ”
“Fuck you,” I murmur, reaching for the pillow behind him and tugging it free. The quilt comes next. He can have the bed. He never claimed the bedding .
I only barely manage not to slam the door on the way out, and it takes additional restraint not to stomp down the hall to the living room.
This couch must be from the seventies. It’s faded mauve, fabric pilling in the well-worn spots on the armrests and cushions. I can’t make them out in the dark, but I know there are fuchsia flowers woven throughout. We used to trace them together, Lovie and me, when thunderstorms knocked out the power.
“Stupid fucking Adam Wheeler,” I grumble. Because I’m flustered, it takes me a solid minute to get the quilt situated. This pillow isn’t as fluffy as I remember.
I still don’t plug in my phone. I’m sure it will be dead by the morning, but I’m dead now, and I don’t care. I just want to sleep.
Along with the familiar scents of ginger, cinnamon, and lavender, there’s something new that lulls me into dreams. It reminds me of childhood, summer days spent in parks until my skin was sticky with sweat and sunscreen.
It smells the way sunshine feels.