Page 68 of Say Yes to the Death

“You can have my room,” he said, standing up. He rounded the couch and stood next to her. “I’m in the middle of re-painting the guest bedroom, and I don’t want you inhaling all those fumes.”

“Oh, no. You took me in. The couch is more than fine.” She stood up straight. Something fell at her feet. The paring knife, wrapped in one of her socks, had fallen out of her bra.

“Oops,” she said, and bent down to get it at the same time as Sawyer. They cracked heads like billiard balls and Claire crumpled to the floor.

“Oh, god, are you okay?” He leaned over her, one hand pressed over his face and the other planted on the floor by her head.

Her right eyebrow smarted where it had smacked off Sawyer’s broad forehead. The popcorn ceiling above her was begging to be scraped off. Sawyer’s biceps bulged above her. A tattoo she had never noticed snaked underneath the seam of his T-shirt. It was hard to tell from this angle, but it looked like the corner of a map.

“I’m fine.” She rose to her elbows and skittered backward like a crab. There was no reason for her to be eyeing Sawyer’s biceps. He was a friend. An acquaintance, even. “Sorry.”

Sawyer sat back on his haunches and pushed the knife sock closer to her.

“It’s yours, seriously. I just changed the sheets,” he said, gesturing back the hallway.

There was no point in arguing. “Thank you, Sawyer. You helped me even though you barely know me. I really hope you’re not a shady murderer because I feel like we could be really good friends.” She laid the paring knife down on an end table and took a step back.

He smiled. “You’re welcome. I hope you’re not a murderer either. The last time I had one in my bed things got out of hand.”

Claire laughed, the first time since the ill-fated dinner cruise.

“Good night,” she said, dragging her carry-on bag down the hall.

Sawyer’s room was the same as the rest of the house, a little bit crowded with knickknacks, but cozy as could be and unusually clean for a bachelor. A collection of vintage comic books lined a bookshelf, and a quick Google search revealed that the series of framed geographic prints on the wall were from a Samoan artist. Wood carvings in abstract shapes littered the flat surfaces in the room. It must have been a bitch to dust. She climbed into the massive bed, and her elbow knocked against yet another framed picture—the redhead from the living room. Who was she?

She crawled under the sheets—surprisingly high thread count for a guy—and sank into their coziness. For the first time since Luke’s betrayal, she felt safe. She stayed conscious long enough to plug her phone into the charger, and then sank into the blissful oblivion of sleep.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

To Do:

- Doublecheck Ericka’s flight info

- Send care package to T&E’s neighbors

Holy shit, had she peed in Sawyer’s bed? Claire hadn’t wet the bed since second grade. Everything from her waist down was soaking wet and cold against her skin. How was she going to explain this? Trauma-induced bladder failure? Jet lag?

Please, please have a washer and dryer. She opened her eyes, already plotting a million different excuses in case he caught her.

She wasn’t in bed. She wasn’t even lying down—she was standing.

Ah, hell.

She glanced down at her feet. Dark water sloshed rhythmically against her shins. For a moment, she was back in Paris, staggering through the stagnant Seine, trying to escape Luke. But this was a lake. And it didn’t smell like sewage and betrayal. So, where the hell was she?

She turned and stepped on something sharp.

“Goddammit,” she said, instinctively lifting her foot from the water and grabbing it. The motion set her balance awry, and she staggered. Her world tilted, and she came down hard. She gasped. The knee-high water hit her like an icy fist and stole her breath. Rocks jutted into her shins.

“Whoa, let me help.” Sawyer’s voice came from behind her. A large shadow sloshed through the dark toward her.

“Sawyer?”

“You’re a sleepwalker, huh?” He hoisted her out of the water like a soaked rag doll.

“Only recently.” Claire wrung her T-shirt out. Oh, good, the paring knife was back in her hand. God, it was cold. Her nipples were probably visible from outer space.

“Since the Barney thing?” He put his arm out, and she latched onto it as they crossed the stony bottom of the lake back to the shore.

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