Chapter 5 - Kate #2
“You’re not shocked or creeped out? Someone was in our house!” I grab a mug from the cupboard and thump it down on the charcoal stone counter, my pulse skipping a beat. “How long have they been watching us?”
“I haven’t finished my caffeine yet,” Harper grumbles, rubbing her nose ring. “Come back to me when I’m functioning.”
Seriously?
I square my shoulders and stare at her, annoyed that she doesn’t take this as seriously as I do.
I wait for more. A reaction. Anything. Nothing comes.
This is Harper. Unflappable, emotionally constipated, and cold as ice.
We all have scars. Hers just happen to be layered in reinforced emotional steel, forged from a childhood spent dodging fists and walking on eggshells.
Just as I’m about to mutter something, she lifts her gaze and meets mine. “I’m handling it. My way.” Clipped and brutally honest.
Translation: she’s already fantasizing about impaling our mystery intruder with one of her novelty knives.
I exhale and reach for the tea tin. “Fine. Be calm. One of us has to be hysterical. And don’t bloody my carpet when you impale him!”
I don’t like the menacing grin she flashes with lips the color of bleeding roses. “That I can’t promise, cupcake.”
If she’s going to be the weapon-wielding stoic, then I need to reclaim my sunshine. And some normalcy, when my life is all but normal after last night’s rescue and this morning’s discovery. I turn to the tea tin, deciding to be my own caffeine-fueled emotional support dog.
It’s times like this I wish I shared a house with Charlie. Her quiet strength is why I turn to her for advice when Harper’s way is to threaten to eviscerate someone.
I pluck the lid off the black tin and fish out a lone tea bag. Sirens scream in my head. I’m out of Earl Grey. In this household, that equates to capital punishment.
I crush the bag in my palm. “Um. Bestie. Don’t get too grumpy, okay?”
“What did you do?” She removes her switchblade and spins it.
Harper doesn’t function in the morning without two coffees and a tea, and I really don’t want her to stab someone at work with a glass pipette.
“I might have forgotten to order the tea,” I let her down gently. “I’ve been distracted by my blog article. I’m sorry. You can have mine, and I’ll have a…” Herbal tea. No. Out of the question. One does not enter Mordor without caffeine in their blood.
“You have it.” Harper waves me off, checking her chipped black nails. “Call it an I-love-you favor, and you can give me a manicure tonight.”
I skip over and throw my arms over her, planting dramatic kisses on her cheeks before she shoves me off.
I fill my mug with water and the last tea bag. My precious.
While it steeps, I say, “Wait. You don’t do manicures.”
She uses her blade to scrape off her nail polish with the same precision that she peels apples. “No. But they make you happy, and that warms my dark heart.”
I slap a hand over my heart. “I’m telling Charlie you love me.”
Harper snorts her coffee.
I fire up my app and place an order. “Shoot. It’s not arriving until next week. Bestie, I won’t cope without caffeine for that long.”
Me without tea equals cranky. Feral cranky. Stabby cranky. Texas Chainsaw Massacre stabby. This requires supernatural intervention.
I clasp my hands together for the second time this morning and send up a tea-based SOS. “Please. Gods. Goddesses. Demons. Anyone listening. I need some divine intervention to get my tea here tomorrow. It’s not for me. It’s for public safety.”
Harper snorts a second time. “You just summoned the Prince of Hell to do our grocery shopping.”
“Hell Princes are worth selling my soul for.” I jam two pieces of bread into the toaster like it’s a blood offering to him and my best friend in lieu of running out of caffeine.
“I’m inclined to agree,” Harper’s smirk tells me she’s starting to defrost.
See? This is why we’re ride-or-die. She gets me.
The toaster spits out Harper’s bread, lightly golden and just the way she likes it. I flourish it with peanut butter and plate it in front of her.
“You’re welcome,” I sing and prepare my cereal.
“Stop. You know I’m allergic to happiness.” She lifts the food to her mouth.
I laugh and finish my breakfast, toss on my tan coat with fake fur trim and glitter buttons over my dress.
I blow Josh a kiss goodbye. “Don’t let Harper recruit you into an assassin cult while I’m gone.”
He yawns like he’s already considered it.
One hour later, one deadline, and a mildly cursed latte later, I slam the last sentence of my article on the festival into place.
I read it under my breath. “The Year of the Snake promises courage, luck, and good fortune.”
I glance at the ceiling and mentally remind God about my prayer for good fortune… and not just for the tea. I’m banking on the stalker fantasy coming true. I want to feel like I’m living in one of my romance novels.
With a hopeful smile, I hit send before I second-guess myself and rewrite the damn thing. It’ll do for the Shadow Lake Reporter.
My cursor blinks. And so does the memory of the helmeted biker from three nights ago, cloaked in shadows and secrets.
Who is he?
Why is he watching me?
Why do I want him to do it again?
I shut down my laptop before I get carried away. This is not the time to write a stalker romance in my head based on my top three tropes.
I have a meeting. One I promised not to be late for.