Page 21 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
Mer snorts. “Sexy.”
“You know it.”
“Well, I’ll let you hide for the rest of the night, then. But if you need help clearing out your place back home or packing more of your things, just say the word. I’ve got a duffel bag, two working arms, and an unhealthy love for bubble wrap.”
“Thanks.” My throat tightens, but I smile. “You’re the best.”
“Damn right I am. Now go eat your raccoon dinner, and try not to fall in love with any more emotionally unavailable cowboys.”
“No promises.”
“Love you, Soph.”
“Love you more.”
I hang up and let the silence settle. For a moment, it’s just me, the soft hum of the fridge, and the slow sway of the hanging chair.
And maybe, just maybe, things will start to make sense tomorrow.
6
SOPHIA
Something pulls me from sleep, and for a moment, I’m floating in that hazy space between dreams and waking. My neck aches from an odd angle. The bed beneath me sways gently, and I reach for my nightstand that isn’t there.
Chicago. I’m in my Chicago home with the broken radiator that clangs at 3:00 a.m. and the neighbor’s Yorkshire terrier yapping outside.
Except there’s no dog. No radiator. Just… silence so complete it feels like pressure against my eardrums.
My eyes adjust slowly to the darkness. Moonlight filters through lace curtains I don’t own, illuminating a room full of built-in bookshelves. The suspended chair I’ve somehow pretzeled myself into creaks as I shift. I must have fallen asleep in it from exhaustion. My laptop slides off my legs with a soft thud onto the thickrug below. My phone follows, screen briefly lighting up to show that it’s 2:47 a.m.
Right. I’m in Montana at a ranch I inherited from my Alpha’s grandmother, surrounded by three cowboys who… no. Not thinking about them right now. Not thinking about how Cash’s eyes follow me everywhere, or Walker’s gentle smile, or Ridge’s brooding silence that intrigues me more than scares me off.
The scratching comes again; that’s what woke me. Long, deliberate drags against glass that make my skin prickle. The library window is maybe ten feet away, curtains drawn tight except where moonlight sneaks through gaps.
I untangle myself from the chair, still wearing yesterday’s leggings and shirt. My bare feet hit cold hardwood, and I suppress a squeak. These floors are freezing.
The scratching continues, patient and rhythmic.
What lives in Montana that scratches at windows? Bears (do bears have claws that scratch, or do they just maul?), mountain lions (definitely have claws), wolves (more likely to huff and puff and blow the house down), serial killers who’ve watched too many horror movies (statistically unlikely but not impossible).
Then Brutus flashes through my mind. That massive black bull appearing from nowhere on the road yesterday. The sickening crunch of metal as I’d swerved into that oak tree. Then he chased me. My skin crawls.
Another scratch. Then another. More insistent now.
I creep toward the window, wishing I’d thought to locate a weapon. Or a light switch. Or my common sense, which apparently stayed in Chicago.
The floorboards creak under my weight, and the scratching stops. Great. Now whatever is out there knows I’m awake. I hold my breath, waiting.
A sound comes through the glass, high-pitched, almost like a rusty hinge that needs WD-40.
I reach for the curtain edge with shaking fingers and peek through the tiniest gap possible.
An enormous orange tabby cat sits in the flower bed below, one paw raised to scratch again. When it spots movement, it opens its mouth and produces the squeakiest meow I’ve ever heard from something that size. Like someone stepped on a particularly melodramatic dog toy.
Relief makes my knees weak. Then annoyance kicks in.
“Seriously?” I whisper to the glass. “All that drama for a cat?”
