Page 3 of Indiscretion

“Here,” I said. “My confirmation is somewhere in there. I’m going to go put some clothes on.”

“Thank you.”

She frowned when I walked back into the living room. “I think you’re going to have a black eye.”

“Perfect. Goes with the rest of this awful day.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. You did the right thing. Someone gets into your bed without an invitation, swing first, ask questions later. My eye will heal.”

“Thank you for saying that, but I still feel terrible.” She sighed and pointed to her laptop, shaking her head. “Both our confirmations show the same thing. It looks like we both rented this house for the same dates. How is that even possible?”

“Let me see.”

She turned her laptop my way, and I compared the information on the screen with my paperwork. Sure enough, we had indeed both booked Fifty Dogwood Lane.

“I don’t know what the hell happened,” I told her. “But I definitely paid for this. I remember seeing it on my credit card six months ago.”

“I booked mine last week.”

I shrugged. “Well, then it’s clear who the rightful renter is.”

“Who?”

“Me. I reserved it first.”

“I don’t care who reserved it first,” she countered. “We both paid for it, so we have equal right to this place.”

Her red hand caught my eye. It really was swollen now. “Let me see your knuckles.”

She hesitated again.

I rolled my eyes. “I think we’ve established that I didn’t commit a felony by breaking in here. I had the combination, even though you left the door open, which you really shouldn’t do out here alone in the middle of the woods. This is obviously just some kind of a mix-up. Let me see your damn hand.”

She squinted. “You don’t have to swear at me.”

“Swear? Damn isn’t a swear.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.Fuck, maybe. Though it’s also a verb, and I tend to use it as an adjective and a noun too.”

“Whatever.” She shook her head. “Just look at myfuckinghand.”

I chuckled.

Two of her knuckles seemed shifted to the right, and they were difficult to see because of the swelling. “Can you move those fingers?” I asked.

She winced as she attempted it. “Not really. And when I try to, a painful tingle runs up my arm.”

“Do your knuckles usually align with your fingers?”

“Yes! Of course they do!”

“Then I’m pretty sure they’re broken.”

She shut her eyes and sighed. “Great.”

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