Wednesday, December 28 #3
Garrett slumped back into the cushions. This kind of thing happens in rom-coms. He didn’t find it funny. He tapped his foot, thinking about starting a fire. He wanted a blaze, not the kind built with chopped timber and kindling.
He needed a beer. Nope. Can’t do that. Angelica decreed no drinks tonight. He stared at the clock, watching it tick as he was stuck in its tock. Garrett let out a breath, heavy enough to blow down a wall.
Her door opened a few minutes later.
When Angelica returned, she left her look of longing in the other room, around the corner. A tearful gaze replaced her once-shimmering eyes. She placed the phone next to the charging base.
“I’ll get the pillow and blanket. Then I’m heading to bed,” she murmured, her voice catching.
As she moved past the back of the sofa, Garrett reached out and took her hand. “What’s the matter, honey?”
Angelica jerked, shoving his hand away as if it were a bothersome bug or annoyance. “Nothing’s the matter. I’m tired.”
That’s a damn lie. Someone called and stole her joy. Was it Matthew Jenkins? No, she would have told him. That’s the reason—the only reason—Garrett’s here. So who the hell was it?
She dropped the bedding beside him. “Good night. Maybe I’ll see you in the morning. If not, take the extra key and let yourself out.”
Garrett’s fleeting glimpse of this heartbreaking vision faded as she reached the hall, or, more accurately, the tomb of the nightwalker. The hinges on her bedroom door voiced their objection to being set in motion again.
What the hell just happened? Angelica’s vibrant spirit vanished. She looked more like a sad child than a sensual woman.
Garrett got up and grabbed his gym bag for a brisk shower. Not to cool his heat for Angelica, but to cool his anger and lower his rising blood pressure. Not at her, but at the damn phantom caller. The shower, which felt like freezing rain on his skin, proved miserable and troubling.
In his usual sleepover attire—T-shirt and gym shorts—his insides were as twisted as they’d been when he entered the guest bathroom.
He turned on the hall nightlight. He didn’t need the light; he turned it on just in case Angelica needed him.
Needed him like under the canopy of trees.
Needed him to calm the storm inside her.
Just plain needed him on her side of the wall.
He switched off the desk lamp, and an eerie darkness settled over the room.
Garrett collapsed onto the couch. There was no way he’d fall asleep.
He joked about staying up all night. Well, this wasn’t a joke anymore.
Anxiety was all he experienced—pain over Angelica’s pain, distress over her distress, and sorrow for her sorrow.
He stared at the ceiling. White, blank ceilings aren’t canvases waiting for your latest creation; they’re an in-your-face wall of mindfulness. His apprehensive thoughts ate at him, crawling. The seconds dragged on in a slow, inaudible tick … tick … tick …
Somewhere in the middle of the night, while very awake, brooding, and held hostage in the tower of time, Garrett received the shock of his life when an ear-piercing scream echoed from her bedroom.
“Shit!” Garrett’s bare feet hit the floor like lightning.
Jenkins must have made an unannounced appearance through her bedroom window.
The Glock found its owner. With his revolver drawn, he raced, his heavy barefoot steps thumping on the hardwood beneath him, nearly tearing the bedroom door off its hinges.
The room was dark, except for a faint glow from her ensuite bathroom.
The blinds were down and closed. No visitor except him.
Yet the subdued atmosphere offered no peace. Angelica sat up in bed, shrieking, “Don’t come near me!”
Was Garrett relieved? Hell no. He spotted the problem immediately. There was an intruder. A ghostly one. A creature of the night.
Garrett quickly set his revolver on the nightstand, then grabbed her shoulders. “Honey, it’s okay. No one’s here.”
Angelica erupted, screaming, “Get away from me!” Flailing, she threw frantic punches, landing on his chest and jaw. “Let me go!”
Whether she slapped, punched, or slugged him, Angelica couldn’t hurt him. What this tormented woman unintentionally did was tear his heart and soul apart.
“Angelica,” he called. “Wake up, honey.”
“Stay away from me!”
Garrett cupped her face in his palms and murmured into her ear, “Wake up, Angelica. It’s me, Garrett, your bodyguard.”
His hands dropped when she shuddered awake. She scanned the room with wild eyes. “Is he gone?” Angelica asked breathlessly.
“He’s gone. You’re safe.”
“You saw him, didn’t you?” Her voice trembled as much as her fingers gripping his arms. “Did the baby stop crying, too?”
“I scared him away, and the baby is sleeping now,” Garrett reassured her. He slid beside her and sheltered her in his arms. “Go back to sleep. I’ll protect you now, Angelica.”
Garrett stretched out, the tufted fabric headboard supporting him.
Angelica’s heart hammered a hundred beats a minute, and his did too.
Chest to chest, their hearts pounded in unison.
Although linked for different reasons, they shared the same emotion—fear.
Hers stemmed from the terror of a nightmare, and his from what might have happened to her.
A man? A baby? He could think of dozens of scenarios—assault, rape, domestic violence, witnessing a crime, and more. The list kept growing; none of them were good. His sigh might have been huge, but it didn’t ease his anguish.
Yesterday, he promised to hold Angelica while she slept. Tonight, however, the weight of his words and promise carried a far deeper meaning.
In the shadows of Angelica’s bedroom, with the scent of her perfume and the overwhelming intensity of her suffering, Garrett whispered, “Sweetheart, I’ll never let you go.”