Page 22 of The Long Game

Something cackled in the cabin. Or cracked. Or creaked.

I paused the episode.

I sat up very slowly and searched the shadows filling up the cabin, praying that I was imagining things. But the truth is that I’d never had a great imagination. And I was sure I’d heard something on the other side of the cabin.

Another creak echoed. This one closer.

I held my breath, the beating of my heart quickly reaching my temples. I tore my AirPods out and searched every corner and shadow again, not finding anything.

A shiver crawled down my spine at the mere of thought of an animal or—Jesus—some crazy Alaskan butcher sneaking into the cabin and watching me. So out of some stupid instinct, I closed my hands around the comforter and brought it to my chin. The fabric was so itchy that it felt like something was crawling on my skin. But it had to be paranoia speaking. I grabbed my phone and turned the flashlight on. There couldn’t be—

A set of small feline-like eyes blinked from the darkness.

And at the exact same time, something moved under my ass. Underneath me.

I screamed. I jolted straight out of that bed, snatched everything on my bedside table, and ran.

“No, no, no, no, no.No.” I went for the first pair of shoes I found. The stilettos I’d worn today. “This wasn’t part of the deal.” I raced across the cabin. I was terrified and furious at the audacity of the universe to throw this on my already full plate. “I was supposed to be on the bottom,” I continued, making it to the antlers and grabbing my purse from where I’d hung it. “All the things that came before were supposed to be my rock bottom. There shouldn’t be more.”

But there was, apparently.

And what was worse, Cameron Caldani had been right. I was not going to make it. Not even for the night.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cameron

“Reckless, stubborn woman,” I said, glancing out the window.

I made the effort to blink a few times, even took another sip of my coffee—French press, a terrible watery joke considering I was an espresso drinker—but I’d left my machine behind and clearly, my eyes had to be betraying me. Either that, or I’d been right all along.

I turned on my heels with one clear objective in mind—the door—but I heard Willow calling for me from the kitchen. Before coming to Green Oak, I would have assumed she was wondering why we weren’t having breakfast, but the incessant mewling and calling had nothing to do with food now. Unlike Pierogi, Willow had been bitching since the first box was packed back in L.A. Ever since arriving here, she’d been very clear about who was to blame for all the discomfort she was suffering. Me. So when I crossed the living room and found her poised on the kitchen counter, right next to the French press, I knew exactly what was coming next.

“Can you please give it a rest?” I asked one of my two cats. “I can only deal with one complicated, frustrating female at a time.”

She held my gaze in silence, then moved closer to the pot. Challenging me.

“Willow,” I warned. But her paw came out in response. “I swear to God, Willow. That coffee is no good, but if you make me—”

She mewled, interrupting me. As if telling me,I don’t care what you do or do not think. And sweet Jesus, a humorless laugh burst out of my mouth, because how was it possible that the cat I’d adopted years ago could remind me of a woman I’d known for less than a day?

That tiny but sneaky paw inched closer, sobering me right up. “Willow,” I said. Softly, this time, pleadingly. “I know you’re not happy here, but we all need to—”

Willow jumped off the counter and dashed into the hallway.

“Adapt,” I finished, my eyes focusing on the trail of mud she’d just left behind. I raised my voice. “And please, stop sneaking out of the house.”

Pierogi lifted his head from the arm of the couch, giving me a charitable look.

“Thanks, P,” I told her.

My phone pinged from the kitchen island. I grabbed it, a glance telling me who it was—Liam, my former agent—and what he wanted—something I didn’t have the energy to deal with.

So I locked the screen, slipped it into my pocket, and gave myself five seconds to regroup. Then, I stomped my way out of the house and onto the porch. I wasn’t going to fool myself, a large—and loud—part of me knew that I shouldn’t be involving myself in anything concerning that woman. I shouldn’t even be entertaining going to her. She knew who I was, and she’d almost blurted it out to the girls.

I’d gone through almost a month of anonymity. I went on my hikes, grabbed coffee from Josie’s Joint, reluctantly ran practice three times a week since the season had kicked off, and kept to myself. Coaching was already a stretch on what I had been looking for here. Peace and quiet. Silence. Nature. Nothing football—or soccer, I thought with an eyeroll—related. Yes, even after five years playing in L.A. I still felt a prickle when I had to call the sport I loved something other than football.

The arrival of that woman had muddled everything up. AdalynElisa Reyes was a major inconvenience and I should not be walking toward her car.

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