Page 12 of Darla's Christmas Knight
“Let me in, Darla. I know you’re home,” the wretched man said.
Leaning against the wall, she placed her hand over her heart, sure her lifegiving organ would burst from her chest. She shoved off the wall and faced the barrier between her and the man whohadshattered her heart by rejecting the love she offered him. “Go away!”
And inwardly cursed herself when she looked through the little lens again.
Go. Just go.
But he stayed.
Looking directly at her.
As if he knew she was looking at him.
“Not leaving until I speak to you,” he said.
A deep melancholy settled over her as she stared at hisdistorted image, the pain of his crushing betrayal fresh and real even though it happened years ago. “Just go.”
“Don’t ask me to do that. Not now,” he replied, leaning in, his face filling her vision.
She stepped back and wrenched open the door. “What do you want?” she snarled.
“You’re not alone,” he weirdly said, brushing past her, walking through her entry to the living area.
Darla stared after him, slack mouthed. Unfortunately, she recalled all too well the hidden power underneath his tall and lean form. How his muscles rippled beneath his skin when he moved above her and—
Stop. Just stop, Darla.
He started pacing. And she (unfortunately!) knew him well enough to recognize the barely constrained agitation in his movements, a far cry from his normal pantherlike grace.
He was in a snit. A bad one.
But Bobby Bell’s snit was not her problem.
And she didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to deal with him.
Not today. Not ever.
“Not sure what brought you here, but you need to go,” she said in her most reasonable voice, making her way to the kitchen. “And shut the door on your way out.” With her back to him, she opened the fridge and perused its contents. And sighed.She needed to do a grocery run, but the idea of putting her shoes back on and going out was beyond her. It was a take-out night. But while she waited …
She closed a hand around the bottle of shiraz (don’t judge; she liked her wine chilled, even a red) and placed it on the counter. Reaching into the cabinet for a suitable glass, she gave Bobby a stink-eye and snipped, “Whyareyou here?”
A deep frown formed, pulling his brows together. His gazedrifted from the wine to clash with hers. “Alcohol is bad for the fetus.”
Okay, then, this was the most bizarre conversationever. Or maybe a hallucination. A wild, fantastical figment of her very tired and overwrought mind.
See?Crazycat lady evenbeforethe cats arrived.
“It is,” she said, adding a couple of cubes of ice to the glass. “Alcohol exposure during a pregnancy can cause lifelong disabilities.” She twisted off the top and picked up the bottle.
“Stop!” Bobby cried out, yanking the bottle from her hand, spilling wine on the counter.
Not a hallucination, she thought, watching the wine spread. “Now look what you’ve done,” she groused.
“I know his behavior is unconscionable,” Bobby said, holding the bottle aloft, concern written all over his features, “but Darla, drinking is not the bloody answer.”
Right. Back to the hallucination. Because the man was not making sense. Not even a little.
She gripped the edge of the counter. “I’ve had a shitty day, Bobby. I am tired, hungry, andI” — she leveled a hard stare at him — “can do whatever the fuck I want in my own home.”
