Page 65 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
“I thought for sure you’d wake up, but you were a sleeping like a log.”
“I guess I was pretty tired after concussion watch.”
“Exactly. So now we’re even.”
“Concussion watch 2.0,” I say. “Speaking of which, how are you feeling this morning?”
“Well.” He lets out a half laugh. “I can’t swear I’ve got the best judgment right now, and some of my choices might be questionable.”
Right.Like kissing me last night. Like sharing a couch with me last night. Like wanting to talk about our past last night.
Then again, I kissedthe swell of his forehead first. If he’s going to attach responsibility to his concussion, I’m just as much to blame.
“And of course I probably have some lingering brain fog. But all things considered, I’m feeling pretty good. That’s only because someone’s been taking pretty great care of me.”
My shoulders hitch. “No big deal.”
“I don’t want to argue with you,” he says, “so we’ll have to agree to disagree about the size of this particular deal.” He tugs on his boots. “Either way, are you just about ready to go do some yelling? I can piggyback you over to the wall since we still don’t know where your shoes are.”
I chew my lip for a moment, a trickle of dread creeping up my spine. “Do you really think we’ll get out of here today?”
“We have to get out,” he says. “If for some reason we don’t get the evaluator’s attention, I’ll come up with another plan.” He lays a palm over my hand, and his touch sends a flash of heat straight up my spine. I should probably pull away, but I don’t. “I’m going to take care of you, Sara, just like you’ve been taking care of me. And I promise I won’t let anything worse than a broken skate blade happen to you. Not now. Not ever.”
When he gives my fingers a squeeze, I suck in a breath. I want to believe Three will never let anything hurt me. But what he really should’ve promised is that he’ll never let anything happen to meagain.
Because he already shattered my heart once.
And nothing could be worse than that.
Chapter Thirty
Three
“I thought you told me Ryan Detweiler was a guy.”
“I did tell you Ryan Detweiler was a guy.”
Sara and I have been pounding on the storage room wall for twenty minutes, our voices hoarse from shouting, and I’m ninety-eight percent sure the person who finally answered us isnota guy.
“What’s going on?” a very high-pitched voice calls out. “Where are you? Are you all right?” There’s banging on the bookshelf side. “I think I just broke a nail!”
Yep. Probably female. Definitely concerned.
When I imagine being in her shoes, I get it. This woman thought she was entering an empty house to judge its potential as a high-end vacation rental. Once inside, she hears screaming. Muffled screaming, but still. She comes into the den, which on the surface appears to be a deserted room, except for the cries for help coming from the other side.
Disconcerting to say the least.
“Are you Ryan Detweiler?” Sara yells, her voice cracking onthe name. Probably from a combination of too much yelling and too much exhaustion, mixed with a big dose of relief.
“How do you know my name?” the woman yells back.
“She’s the homeowner,” I shout, trying to help preserve Sara’s voice. “We got trapped in here last night by accident.”
“I promise we’re friendly,” Sara shouts, and my chest tightens. She’s not wrong. The two of us did get a little friendly last night. And I would’ve gotten friendlier if Sara had been up for it.
“Also, I’m not technically the homeowner,” she hollers. “I’m their daughter! Sara Hathaway? The one you’ve been texting with?” Her raspy words sound like nails on a chalkboard.
“You aren’t supposed to be here during an evaluation,” Ryan Detweiler yells. “Platinum Stays is very particular about that!”
