Page 105 of Muddy Messy Love

Thanking the Uber driver, I dash from the back seat and run up the stairs to bang on Cole’s front door. I peer inside with cupped hands, pressing my forehead to the cold glass. The cavernous living room is empty and still, but near the dining table I spy Cole’s suit jacket, shoes, and car keys scattered across the shiny concrete floor.

Thankfully, the door handle turns when I try it. I wouldn’t have had the balls to literally break in. The windows are all high up and louvred, and I doubt Cole keeps a stupid thief beacon in his garden like Beth.

I cross the threshold with a deep breath, all too aware I’m intruding. “Cole?” I close the door gently behind me. “Hello?”

No answer comes.

Like a burglar, I tiptoe past the leather sofas. The irony isn’t lost on me, but I guess Cole knew what he was signing up for from the start. The fireplace hovers above the ground asleep, its scorched wood scent still tingeing the cool air. I eye the bank of portraits and smile at Ella, wince at Hannah, then shudder when Cole’s mum seems to follow my every step. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to her. “I’m not a thief. I just need to make sure he’s all right.” Hell knows he’d do the same in reverse. She doesn’t reply—if she did, I’d commit myself—but I swear her dimple presses a smidge deeper, and her eyes twinkle that spark brighter. I’ll bet she wasso lovely. The kind of mum love heart mugs and Mother’s Day cards are made for.

When I reach the dining room, I pick up Cole’s keys and rumpled jacket, shaking out the latter. His phone thuds to the floor. “Fuck.” I pick it up, accidentally mashing the power button, but nothing happens. It’s as dead as Elvis, and that pretty fact dials down the blender in my belly a welcome notch, since it justifies at least some of the ghosting. I chuck it on the river table with his keys, hang his jacket on the chair, and shove his shoes clear of the walkway as if righting this mess will undo the clusterfuck that caused it. “Cole? It’s me.”

The continued silence Red-Bulls my nerves. He could be ignoring me. Shit. After everything, he might have finally realised I’m not worth the trouble. What if he never wanted to see me again and I didn’t take the hint? What if he and Slade somehow bonded, then rubbished me over beers, chinking together their bottles to seal a never-again vow?

God, Avery Lee. It’s always about you, you, you, isn’t it?

I cringe. No. Today it’s about Cole’s welfare—Hannah’s virtue—not me and my perpetual list of insecurities. Fuck, I hate myself sometimes.

I reach the hallway and rush towards Cole’s bedroom door standing open at the end. The king bed is made, but the light-grey woven covers are crumpled and dirty—the en suite pristine but empty. The faintest hint of music registers then, and I follow it back into the hallway. Cole’s house might be an architect’s wet dream, but it isn’t big. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and one insanely gorgeous man.

I head for the second bedroom—Cole’s home office—and knock twice on the door. “Cole?” It brushes the plush carpet as I push it open, and the wave of relief that sweeps out has me steadying myself against the architrave. Cole sits slouched in a buttoned leather chair near the window, staring at the gum treesglittering outside. A near-empty bottle of amber liquid dangles from his hand, glowing artfully in the mid-morning sun like stained glass, and Kings of Leon sing about walls coming down softly in the background. Cole rolls his head towards me, then smiles, reopening a split in his swollen bottom lip. “Angel.” The melt-worthy moniker comes slurred at the edges, and the blood on his lip glistens as mine drains.

“Oh my God.” I race towards him and drop to my knees at his feet, gripping his hard thighs. “Are you okay?” I scan him for further damage while adrenaline whips my heart. One beautiful cheekbone shines purple and blue. Blood and mud Pollock his white shirt. The pocket is torn, and several buttons are missing, leaving frayed cotton in their place. The right side of his chest shows through, grazed red and raw. I reach out to trace around the rash of tiny cuts. “Holy shit.”

“You should see the other guy.” Cole throws his head back with a morbid laugh. It falls back down a second later, bobbing as if too heavy for his neck.

“What happened?” I ask.

His smile fades, and unsteady, bourbon-glazed eyes lock on mine. “He laughed.”

“What?”

“When he found out Hannah was my sister. He laughed. He knew she was a friend of yours, but I guess he hit the jackpot.” Cole holds up the Wild Turkey bottle in salute and swirls it near my head. “Saw you both onSchmacebook.” He takes a hearty swig, then swallows. “Seems my sister had to tell the world about her big night out.”

As his words hit home, queasiness takes root. Oh no. Hannah was excited, and she did post about it, tagging me as her beloved babysitter and new best friend. But who could blame her? It was her first night out in forever, and everyone posts everything everywhere these days. Squeezing my eyes shut, I restmy forehead on Cole’s knee.Fuck. He was right. This was no coincidence.

He strokes the nape of my neck, sending shivers down my back. “You really should update your privacy settings. You never know where evil lurks.”

My eyes pop open.Double fuck. My privacy settings. Or more aptly, lack thereof. I rarely use my account, but had I simply been careful, none of this would have happened. Bile burns the back of my throat, and I groan. It’s all my fault. Slade wanted revenge, and poor Hannah was caught in the crossfire. God, he’s an arsehole. A conniving, slimy, vengeful arsehole. I snap my chin back up. “What did you do to him?” Part of me hopes the worst. The rest fears it.

“I should have killed the prick, but I called him an ambulance instead because I’m a nice guy, really I am.”

“Anambulance? How bad is it?”

Cole arches a dark brow. “Do you even care?”

I guess I do. “I don’t like seeing anyone hurt. Arseholes included.” I shrug.

Cole’s jaw ticks as he searches my face. “Broken nose, rib, and concussion at worst. He’ll live. Unfortunately.” The last word comes grumbled.

“But he could press charges. Your reputation… Benedict’s…” As the next possibility sprouts, I stiffen. “You could go to jail!”

Chuckling, Cole fumbles a lock of hair behind my ear. “Don’t worry, I have friends in jail. I saved those guilty fuckers years. I’ll be a hero. Hell, it will be a holiday, away from all the corruption and lies.” He takes another swig from the bottle, then flops his arm back down, narrowly missing the floor.

My stomach pretzels, and my knees buckle. I think I might actually puke.

Cole tsks, then leans forward to erase the worry from my brow with his thumb. He almost pokes my eye out, and his breath is flammable. He doesn’t usually drink. Or swear.

God, what have I created?

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