Chapter 4
Four
Faye
Gasping, I whip around, tearing my eyes from the window.
From the sight of Gray Roberts—captain of the San Jose Grizzlies hockey team and the most gorgeous member of the opposite sex I’ve ever had the privilege to lay eyes on—and the beautiful woman who showed up, strolled in, and dared to kiss him with barely any preamble.
And he kissed her back.
His wife. Or soon-to-be-ex-wife. Or is it wife?
I can’t keep up—just know from the neighborhood hubbub (and maybe my online research, for book purposes only)—that his relationship with his wife (or not), Courtney, brings complicated to a whole new level.
I’ve tried to leave it at that, to not invade his privacy…
But that—my eyes go back through the window—doesn’t seem very not.
Unable to stop myself, I keep watching them as I do the dishes from my dinner for one—daydreaming about a life that isn’t me waking up at home by myself.
That also isn’t making breakfast for myself and working at home…
you guessed it, by myself. And eating lunch by myself, taking my after work walk (by myself), eating dinner, also by myself, and then bingeing whatever hot TV show is on social media until I’m too tired to stay awake—and doing it by myself.
And then—worst of all—going to sleep.
By myself.
I have friends, though they’re mostly online. I have a job I love, though that’s also mostly online. So it’s not like I’m a total loner.
I just…spend a lot of time on my own.
Gray picks up the beautiful woman, lifting her like she weighs nothing and setting her on the kitchen counter. Then—
“Oh!” I exclaim, dropping the dish I was washing and ripping my gaze away.
That’s…
Well, that’s a version of oral sex I’ve never seen before.
I’ve thought about it.
Written about it.
I’ve just—
My gaze drifts back.
Never seen it in real life.
Heat floods my cheeks, fills my middle…flickers between my legs.
And right on the wake of that wave of pleasure, shame chases me, nipping at my heels. I close my eyes, count to ten.
“Enough,” I whisper, slitting them open, focusing on the task at hand.
I find that at least I didn’t break the plate.
Moving slowly and deliberately, I pick it up from the basin and finish washing it.
Then move just as slowly and deliberately as I reach over, set it in the rack to dry, then repeat the process with the remaining cutlery and my wine glass and the pan I used to sear my single chicken breast, to cook my single serving of asparagus.
I promise myself I’ll give Gray—and his woman, whatever state they are—privacy, but the pervert in me can’t stop my eyes from drifting back out my window, from sliding across our adjoining side yards toward his window, from—
Being disappointed when I find his kitchen is empty, though the lights are still ablaze.
I lift on tiptoe, lean over my sink, searching—
“Jesus, Faye,” I mutter when I do it for so long I get a crick in my neck.
I shake my head at myself and dry my hands on my towel. Then I get crazy and grab a new wine glass, filling it nearly to the top as I treat myself to a second glass of wine. Sipping, I deliberately stride from the kitchen, only slowing to flick off the lights before I pad into the living room.
No more Peeping Tom-ness for tonight.
I’m going to be normal…and alone.
Sighing, I shove down the loneliness. Alone is normal. Alone is my status quo. Alone is my reality and has been for almost my entire life.
I wouldn’t even know what to do if I had a partner.
So why do I yearn so intensely for one?
Why do I make my living writing about happy endings and hunky heroes and heroines who demand their men fall hard and fast and desperately?
The only one who’s falling in my life is me.
Likely because I’ll trip coming down the stairs with an overflowing laundry basket.
Because laundry is my nemesis and I never stay on top of it.
Even if it’s just me. Alone.
“Lame, Faye,” I whisper as I sit on the couch and flick on my TV, navigating to one of the streaming apps (one because I have them all).
Lame is right.
Maybe I need a cat.
No, he or she would probably just eat my face off if I died during a laundry-basket-induced fall down the stairs.
A dog wouldn’t eat me, right?
No way. They’re man’s—or woman’s—best friend.
So, yup, I definitely need a dog.
That decided, I shove the morbid thoughts from my mind, drink my wine, and spend the next few hours watching my show until my lids grow heavy.
Only when I feel ready to pass out do I shut it off.
Pausing to check the thermostat and the stove since I can smell that faint burning smell again (and finding both off), I climb the stairs to my bedroom, making my sleepy way through my nighttime routine of washing my face (and moisturizing), brushing my teeth (and flossing). Then I crawl into bed.
Alone.
Of course.
“Enough,” I mutter to myself as I yank the covers up, as the loneliness ramps back up, threatening to escape.
I deliberately shut it down, deliberately close my eyes and spend the next couple of heartbeats clearing my mind.
Unfortunately that means I’m not ready to drift off.
I don’t get up, though.
And I don’t pull out my phone and doom scroll until unconsciousness takes me.
Instead, I lay in the dark as I wait—a long, long time—for sleep to come.
But when I jerk awake what feels like minutes later, it’s not to sunlight pouring into my bedroom, morning having come to draw me out of my slumber.
It’s bright, yes.
And warm—uncomfortably so.
I sit up on a gasp…and then immediately start choking.
On smoke.
Because flames are licking up the walls of my bedroom.
For once, I’m glad I’m by myself, that I’m the only one in this danger. But that thought flits through my mind and out of it in a flash. Because that quickly, the heat is overbearing and the smoke is burning my eyes and lungs and…
I realize I’m in danger.
Danger that is far, far more serious than laundry-basket-induced death.
Move, Faye!
I throw the covers back, drop to the floor, start crawling for the hallway, coughing harder and harder with each foot I progress.
There’s more smoke—
No. There’s too much smoke.
But I have to make it downstairs, have to get outside where there will be fresh air.
I pull my tank top up, covering my mouth, getting a bit of relief from the smoke, and keep crawling.
Heat ripples through the air, seeming to scorch my skin, but I don’t stop.
I know I can’t stop.
Then I’m in the hall, turning to the right, squinting in the flickering darkness for the stairs—
“Ow!” I cry out as I tumble headfirst down several steps, having found them in the least helpful way.
Falling.
Yeah, now I understand that would be a bad way to go.
My face hurts and my wrist is screaming but the smoke is getting thicker.
I can’t stop.
Not when it’s getting hotter by the second, hotter than anything I’ve ever felt in my life.
Not when it’s getting harder to breathe with each passing moment.
I keep half-crawling and half-falling down the stairs, not stopping until crash hard onto the landing. Then I roll to my side, searching for the front door and the freedom it will bring.
But I can’t see anything, not through the thick blanket of smoke.
Panic rises up, clawing at my insides.
Too hot.
And I can’t breathe, no matter how hard my lungs work to draw in breath.
Get up, Faye. Get. Up!
I shove up to my hands and knees, try to crawl forward.
I don’t make it far.
Lack of oxygen has weakness seeping into my legs, my arms, and the fabric of my tank top isn’t protecting me any longer, not with the heat and smoke closing in.
It’s so dark, so disorienting…
I don’t know how to get out, don’t know how to do this…
Alone.
But just as those words slide through my mind, as my arms give way and I crumple to the floor—
There’s a loud crash.
I finally spot the front door, giving way in a splintering of wood, a shattering of glass.
And the last thing I see before black sucks me under…
Is the gorgeous man from next door.