Page 9 of Rescued by the Captain

I find a bedroom tucked in the corner of the cabin. Notes of cinnamon waft to my nose as I walk inside. Talk about thebest of both worlds— Donte’s cooking me a delicious meal, and I get to sleep on a surprisingly comfy bed. Waking up with no memories is no ideal situation, but to be saved by this guy, I can’t say that I’m itching to complain too much. He’s cute and caring. If only I could remember if I have a guy…or girl… or someone back home.

Home? I close my eyes. I swear I see a small house, tudor style, brick, from the 1960s. And there’s a dog… no, a cat… no… nothing.

I roll over and my head pounds. Maybe a nap would be a good thing.

5

DONTE

It’stime to wake the woman up. I’ve been standing at the bedroom door for probably five minutes now, staring at her as she sleeps. She looks so peaceful at rest. Her long eyelashes lowered to her rosy cheeks, her plump mouth faintly parted in an ‘O’. Her brown tresses are sprawled out on the bed like a second pillow. I know, it sounds creepy to watch someone like you’re admiring a painting in a gallery, but I can’t help being entranced by the plushness of her body.

Thoughts must be louder than words, because she starts to stir under the sheets. I clear my throat, swaying with my hands shoved in my pockets as if I just arrived here seconds ago.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” I say wryly.

She props herself upright against the bed frame, rubbing her eyelids, adjusting that beautiful necklace back into the swell of her breasts. “Did I sleep until morning?”

I steal a cursory glance at my watch. “No, it’s been an hour.”

“So you did let me sleep-sleep.” Slowly, she shifts to the edge of the bed so she can stretch. I can’t help notice how her bountiful chest sticks out.

This woman is stacked. Her body is something out of men’s fantasies.

“You just looked so… peaceful. How do you feel?”

Her shirt slides up her waist as she stretches, showing her soft belly. “Still a bit groggy, but not bad. I’m definitely hungry.”

“Good. I’ve got that chili going.” My phone grabs my attention to the kitchen — retreating there, I pick up the ringing device and head for the front porch. I glance at the caller ID once I’m outside. It’s Colt.

“What did you find out?” I ask, cutting straight to the point.

“Hello to you, too,” he responds sourly. Of course, the grump wants to drag this out as long as possible.

“Colt, we don’t have —”

“That’s Sheriff Briggs to you, Mr. Rogers.”

I press my jaw down hard. Damn it, this isn’t worth breaking a tooth.

“What did you find out?”

There’s a stretch of silence. “I really don’t know what to make of it,” Colt replies.

“Spit it out, man.”

I’m pacing the porch when I hear tires screeching from afar. At this hour? I squinch my eyes, leaning over the porch railing to see a truck’s silhouette in the distance. The vehicle is painted black, and whoever’s behind the wheel doesn’t look to have good control.

Holy shit. I watch the truck swerve violently on the road, slipping and sliding as it attempts to go up the mountain.

And when I thought the wildness of the situation has lapped its tipping point, the truck does what I least expect. It passes the cabin, slowing as it goes by.

My skin chills. This could be a coincidence, a freak observation that should be shoved to the crannies of my mind but who forces their truck up a mountain in the middle of thenight, then skirts a random cabin like they’re attending a drive-thru?

Worse, the windows are pitch black. I’ve been in this line of work two long to know there are few types of drivers that get tinted windows. An even smaller cohort gets them for heavy-duty trucks.

Colt begins to share his findings. “The video from the Weston’s house along that road shows a?—”

“Black truck?” I interrupt.

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