Page 60 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight

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And he probably had some sort of postgame routine.

All of my hockey heroes did.

Plus, the Grizzlies had won.

Handily.

So he might have gotten together with the guys and celebrated.

In which case, he’d have been out late.

So late it won’t matter if I close my eyes against the growing brightness and go back to sleep.

Because Gray will still be in bed.

Smiling at that sensual thought, I draw the blankets up a little further, bury my face into the pillow and allow my lids to slide shut.

A deep breath.

A deliberate relaxing of my body.

Then my eyes flash open.

Because I hear it.

I smell it.

Rumbling.

Burning.

Gasping, I sit upright in bed, searching the room for smoke and when I don’t find any, or none in the immediate vicinity, I take a moment to calm myself. Then I grab a sweatshirt from the closet, shove my feet into the sneakers, snag Gray’s phone from the nightstand.

The scent of burning still lingers in the air and my stomach twists.

Smoke equals loss.

I can’t let that happen to Gray.

A gentle touch of the doorknob.

Finding it cool to the touch, I carefully turn it and pull it open, searching the hall for any sign of smoke.

I still don’t see any.

But I smell it, stronger now.

“Shit,” I whisper, hurrying down the hall. I don’t know exactly where Gray’s room is, though, presumably, it’s upstairs.

I need to locate the source of the fire then find him and make sure we both get out, that we’re both safe.

Like he did for me.

But even as I’m searching for flames and planning my exit route, I hear it.

The rumbling.

Only…it’s not the flames burning through the floorboards, tearing through the walls, the foundation, the noise of destruction reverberating all around me.

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