Chapter 9
Bailey
Three days ago, I was coming out of the shower with a clear head, about to make my coffee for the day.
A book release looming.
Rhett safely tucked inside a memory.
And no idea that some weirdo was going to be following me around with a camera.
Today, I’m walking out of that same shower with Rhett sleeping in his boxers on my couch, a book out in the world that I very much hope he never reads, and a guy who went to the trouble of videotaping me at my own party with a camera hidden in his shirt.
Trying to sleep last night was not easy, and Rhett being half-naked on my couch just down the hall was the icing on the cake. I spent the whole night tossing and turning, trying to process how everything played out.
I check the bags forming under my eyes, then start to dry my hair when my phone pings loudly on the dresser.
I hope it’s an update from Simon with the camera footage.
Instead, there are four new texts from Hollis that must have started coming in while I was showering.
I’d texted her everything when I went to bed last night, and since it’s finally morning here, she’s probably hoping I’m awake to chat. Sure enough, I see,
Are you awake?
Please tell me my brother is still there.
And that he slept on the couch!!
I’m thinking of flying to New York today. Has Simon gotten the footage from that techie yet?
I tighten the towel wrapped around my chest and begin texting her back.
Please don’t bother flying back to New York! There’s nothing to do but wait, and you don’t need Titus flying off the handle while you’re—
But stop when I hear a loud thud in the kitchen.
It’s loud enough to make me jump.
I curse my adrenaline.
This is silly.
A guy does one pervy thing at my party, and suddenly, I’m a jumpy squirrel about it.
That’s probably just Rhett.
Who else would it be?
But I hear another loud thud down the hall and freeze.
Thumbs hovering over the phone.
That second one was much louder.
I try to focus on typing, but my thoughts begin to swim.
Rhett could be getting overpowered in the kitchen right now while I’m standing here in a towel, dripping water down my legs after that shower, texting Hollis back that everything is just fine.
It’s like a scene from Dateline.
I can practically hear the voice of the TV show host.
Following the secret videotaping, she didn’t even check to see that her old friend was okay when she heard strange thuds coming from her kitchen the next morning.
It’s the part of the show where I’d be yelling at the television that the woman who got murdered soon after not checking out the weird noises should have run out to help defend the place.
A drawer slams shut.
I’m ninety-nine percent positive it’s Rhett.
But that little voice of fear in my head answers, Shouldn’t you be one hundred percent sure?
Fucking hell.
It’s that little gut feeling that Rhett insisted I always listen to.
I open the door quietly and tiptoe out. Cold drops of water skid down the back of my neck while I slide my feet down the hall as quietly as I can.
I just need to get a glimpse of Rhett to make sure that’s really him before I—
A man clears his throat and . . . Is that whistling?
. . . what is that?
“Tiny Dancer”?
I tiptoe on, trying to determine if it’s Rhett’s whistle on the other side of the wall.
Of course it is. Who else would be whistling “Tiny Dancer” in my kitchen?
That’s such a Rhett thing to do.
But just as he hits the chorus, the whistle breaks into full-blown singing, changing the lyrics to include my name instead of “tiny dancer” each time.
A smile floods my face.
Rhett used to annoy me when we were kids by changing the lyrics of every song he could think of to be about me. Secretly, I loved it. A lot. But outwardly? I’d never admit it.
I step around the corner to say hi, but accidentally run into a barrel-chest, turning the corner from the kitchen at the exact same time as me.
“Sweet baby Jesus!” I exclaim, jumping back, throwing my hands up in front of my face, like I would know jujitsu if I needed it. I might recognize his voice, but it doesn’t mean that he hasn’t just scared the daylights out of me.
And at least eight of my toes have just been crushed under his feet.
I nearly tip back, but he releases my foot from his, so I can catch myself up against the wall.
“You scared the shit out of me!” I exclaim when my back hits it.
The last time he ran into me, it was kind of cute, in that I-haven’t-seen-you-and-now-you’re-all-hot-and-grown-and-running-out-of-my-party kind of way.
But this time, I’m more on edge.
“What, are you going to beat me up?” he asks, grabbing my hands to lower them from in front of my face, but I quickly hit him on the bicep when he lets go.
“Stop! Running! Into! Me!” I say each word with a smack.
He only looks more amused.
“You knew I slept here last night,” he reminds me, as if any part of my body, mind, or soul could have forgotten that fact.
His hair is tousled from sleep, and he’s lost that long-sleeve button-up he was wearing last night, leaving just the white undershirt he had on with the pants he was wearing last night. I must have missed the time frame where he was only in his boxers.
I nearly smack him harder, rearing my hand back one last time, but he grabs my wrist as it comes sailing toward his arm for the final blow. His thumb and middle finger encircle it with at least two inches of circumference to spare.
“Four smacks is the limit,” he says, lowering my wrist back down to my side, squeezing it gently before letting go.
“And then?” I ask, raising it back up like I want to see what happens if I break his four-smack rule.
“And then you’re playing with fire,” he says, lowering his voice.
Omph. Why was that so oddly hot?
I sidestep him to avoid any further contact and make my way toward the coffee maker, readjusting my towel to make sure it’s not going to fall.
“You gave me a near heart attack,” I tell him, looking down to examine my toes. They look mostly fine, if not a little pink around the tips. “You also crushed me, Bigfoot. What are we rockin’ these days? Thirteen? Fifteen?”
Our families used to joke that his feet were like a puppy’s when we were younger. Way too big for his body, until one year, his body finally caught up. By the look of it, his body hasn’t stopped catching up since.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” His lips do that annoying thing where they curl up into a secret — one he’ll likely protect at all costs.
Given that most women equate shoe size with other choice parts of a man, I’m surprised he isn’t walking around with the size of his shoes tattooed to his forehead.
Instead, he plays it cool. Leaning against the countertop, tipping his head to the side while his light blue eyes dance all the way across the kitchen and right into me.
Oh Rhett. If you only knew what that look can do to a girl.
I throw my stomach in reverse, willing it not to flip over any of the electric currents snaking their way out between us right now, like a minefield filling the air.
“Well.” I swallow. “According to the hit-and-run laws, it’s my right to know details about the feet that just took mine out.”
“This is hardly a hit-and-run situation.” He smiles and holds out his arms. “I’m right here, kid.”
My poor stomach does a double flip at the nickname he pulls out from when we were younger. I used to tell him I wasn’t a kid, that I was only one year younger than him and Axel, which predictably cemented the nickname for me, apparently forever.
“Details,” I whisper, and he laughs.
“Fourteen,” he says, revealing the perfect set of teeth that God gifted him without a single year of braces. “Point five.”
“Right.” I scoff and shake it off like everyone I know has fourteen-and-a-half-sized feet.
Totally, absolutely normal. I won’t be picturing anything about that in my mind later.
I tilt my foot back to inspect it, giving my eyes somewhere else to go and my mind something else to focus on that has nothing to do with Rhett in his boxers on my couch last night with that new information swimming around my mind.
“You okay?” he asks, interrupting the mental playground I’ve just created out of nowhere.
I clear my throat. “Definitely. Mildly bruised, but in all honesty, my toes are the least interesting part of my last twenty-four hours.”
Without warning, he bends to examine my crushed digits, but the sight of the top of his head kneeling in front of me catches a quick breath at the back of my throat. However, he’s too busy mumbling something about the ring wrapped around my bruised toe to notice.
He straightens up as quickly as I take a step back.
The heat in my cheeks returns with a vengeance. I raise a hand to my neck and chest — a nervous tic that seems to be in full force ever since Rhett got here. This is why I function best while hidden behind a laptop.
“You’re okay,” he says, glancing back down as a drop of water from the shower slides across my ankle.
He shifts his eyes back up to meet mine, extending a long blink to pass over everything in between that’s currently covered by a towel.
I should have gotten dressed before I came out to save him.
“Your toes look . . . very intact. Might want to take off that ring in case it swells though.” He turns toward the coffee pot behind me. “How’d you sleep?”
“Sleep?” I step to the other side of him.
“I slept like someone who found out a stranger has been videotaping them.” I wish I weren’t so jumpy.
“But after nearly karate-chopping your face just now, I believe I’m more on edge than I thought.
I couldn’t completely dismiss that guy coming back to kill me this morning. You are a very loud coffee maker.”
He nods toward the full pot, and I’d grab a mug if he weren’t standing between me and the machine. There’s already been far too much maneuvering around each other in such a small space this morning.
“That’s an intense moment to wake up to.”