Friday, 6:37 p.m.

Evelyn:

Agreeing to have a drink with Rosie at my beach house had seemed like a good idea at the time, but she’s talking a mile a minute about a subject I have little time for even when it’s not the end of a very long week.

From inside my country-style kitchen where I’m baking cookies, she tucks her burnished copper hair behind her ear and narrows her blue eyes. “You know you’ve got to get back out there. A man isn’t going to fall out of the sky.”

I try to keep my annoyance from showing as Rosie places a bottle of wine on the countertop. “At some point, you need to move on. Find a hot guy and jump him. Even if it’s just for a weekend. This whole repressing your sexuality can’t be good for you.”

I keep staring out the window, my eyes on the storm clouds muscling in, casting the beach in broody tones that spell the end to the mild autumn.

Her eyebrows rise as she reaches for two glasses and sends me one of her signature ‘I’m worried’ looks. “Ev? Are you even listening to me?”

I unscrew the bottle and avoid her inquiring glance as I fill our glasses. “I’m too busy at work. I barely have the time to sleep, how am I supposed to fit a person into a seventy-hour week?”

She takes her glass with a disapproving frown and downs almost half of her pinot noir before I’ve even taken a sip. “Stop making excuses. You only work so damn hard because you have no one to come home to anymore.” Her voice softens, which makes what she’s saying even worse somehow. “Hon, it’s been three years. I don’t think he would have wanted you to be alone.”

I stay silent even though I’m sick of people telling me what Scott would have wanted. I’m out of answers, out of protests, because she’s heard it all before. I’m not ready. Why can’t people understand that?

I take a large sip in the hopes it will warm the cold that has settled in my middle. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day. Can we take a rain check? I really just want to go for a run before the weather turns and get in an early night.”

Rosie sighs deeply. “I’m worried about you. It’s so isolated out here in the winter. No cell access, no internet. No one is in town; the stores are all boarded up. How can you stand it?”

I run a hand through my blonde hair and make a point of looking at my split ends. “I like the quiet. And I like that my time is just that. Work knows they can’t get me once I leave the office.”

I don’t explain that no one is out here to try to set me up in the tiny beachside town of Sanctuary Cove.

She growls at me. “Fine. Be all introverted. But there’s a singles night at this new bar next Saturday, and you are coming with me.” I open my mouth to protest, but she shakes her head and slams her glass down on the countertop so violently I flinch. “Don’t argue. I’ll meet you there at eight.”

To keep from protesting, I gesture to the sky outside and take another drink. “You should probably leave now if you want to beat the storm.”

Her eyes narrow, a frown spreading over her tanned skin. “See this makes me even more worried. A woman alone with no neighbors close by. How does that not worry you?”

I frown back at her. “I have firewood, candles, and an emergency kit. I’ll be fine.”

She rolls her eyes and pulls out her lip gloss, then puckers her lips and waves the lip brush at me. “I know you’ll be fine. That’s not the point.” She makes a show of plastering the shiny pink over her lips as she looks me up and down. “Make sure you wear some makeup on Saturday. You can look pretty hot when you try.”

Before I can reply, she blows me a kiss and spins on her heel. As the door closes with a click and I hear her Honda start outside, I close my eyes and try to think of yet another excuse to avoid going on a date.

I stare out the window again, watching the sun as it dips lower, the black clouds edging in stealing the sun along with my mood, and drink my wine until the buzzer signals the cookies are ready. I leave them cooling on the tray, glass in hand as I walk around the empty beach house.

I need to keep moving. Despite what I told Rosie, I have no intention of relaxing. I won’t sleep. I know that well enough. Not until I’ve run off my nervous energy, and not until I’ve drunk enough to stop the memories from crushing in as I try to sleep.

I shrug out of my clothes, removing the heels that make my arches ache, and find my sneakers and sweats. I pull my hair back and try not to look myself in the eye as I pass the guestroom mirror.

The air is frigid as I step outside. I don’t see anyone on the beach, and I don’t expect to. Not this late in the season. And not this close to a storm. I start to run towards the water where the sand is firmer and packed more evenly. Before I reach the edge of the water, my nose is dripping. I shake off the discomfort, embracing it as I run faster. My legs start to burn, breathing coming in quick as I blink back hot tears.

I run into the wind, pumping my arms and legs until I can’t think about anything else until I feel nothing but the burning in my muscles. I push harder, gasping but gritting my teeth against the muscle fatigue until I push through. I make it to the rocks and bend over as I try to find my breath. The slightest amount of movement coming from the corner of my eye alerts me to activity I didn’t expect. I peer at the rocks, unsure if my eyes are playing tricks on me or if it’s just a seal basking on them, taking in the last of the sun’s rays.

I’ve nearly convinced myself it’s a seal when the blurry object starts moving closer with decidedly human posture. I suck in a breath as a man with shaggy dark hair dressed in torn clothing starts taking awkward fumbling steps over the rocks.

I squint into the fading light, trying to see if he’s a local fisherman who’s maybe looking for shellfish. I scan the water, shading my eyes as I try to see any of the boats I know frequent the area. Out past the breakers, the water is choppy, wind picking up the waves as the sky darkens even further, but there are no boats out tonight.

The intruder seems unaware of my presence as he nearly tumbles over the rocks and onto the beach. A shiver runs down my spine as I ease myself up, standing to my full height. Tension creeps through me as he lifts his head to stare in my direction. I feel a tug in my chest as his dark eyes lock on to mine.

My heart starts to thud unevenly as he stops walking ten feet away from me. He slowly raises a hand in greeting. I creep closer, nerves winding higher as he starts shuffling awkwardly to cross the few feet remaining between us.

He’s so close now I can see his bronzed face and muscled body. His face is half hidden by stubble. His voice comes out strained. “I could use a little help.”

I force a smile to my face. “Where did you come from?”

His own smile is weak as he adjusts his soaked clothing. “Had an accident. I swam ashore but—” His sentence is cut short as he sways and grimaces. “I don’t suppose you have a phone I could use? Maybe a first aid kit?”

I swallow and gesture to my house, the only one on the beach-front with any sign of life. “I don’t have a phone that will work, but I have a first aid kit.”

He smiles again and starts to drag his feet in the direction of my house. My heart continues to pound as I fall into step with him, doubting the wisdom of showing a stranger where I live. Alone.

He doesn’t say anything, whether he’s exhausted, or whether the increasing wind is making it impossible, I don’t know. I’m just relieved I don’t have to make small talk with him. I know next to nothing about fishing, and I’m not sure I should be encouraging him to talk, injured as he seems.

As I fumble with my key, he drops to sit and leans his head against the balcony and stares out at the increasingly agitated water. My hand hovers over the door as I watch him sitting on my porch. He’s not looking at me, and he’s not trying to come inside, but if he’s a predator, an opportunist, I would be foolish to let him in my house.

I clear my throat. “I’ll just get the first aid kit. Wait here.”

He doesn’t reply so I twist the key in the lock and step inside the warmth. My eyes stay on him, but he doesn’t move. If he expected me to invite him inside, he doesn’t seem bothered when I glimpse at him through the glass door. I lock the door and head to the bathroom cabinet, heart tapping too fast at the unexpected intrusion. I fumble with the first aid kit and check my cell on the off chance the patchy reception is cooperating.

When I see there’s no signal, and I pause to look at him, still questioning my judgment, his body goes slack, and he topples over from where he’s sitting.

“Damn it.”

I hurry across the room, praying he’s not faking, and edge closer to see his eyes are closed and he’s shivering. When he doesn’t move, I ease down to my knees and try to rouse him. He groans as I shake his shoulder but doesn’t open his eyes.

I adjust my posture, so I’m kneeling over him, desperately trying to remember if the local sheriff’s department is even open after five pm. I’m considering jumping in my car and driving the twenty minutes into town when I notice the slightest amount of crimson splattered on my blue decking.

My eyes widen as I gingerly pull back the faded denim shirt from his chest. Nausea swells in my stomach at the blood soaking through his grey t-shirt. Whatever injuries he has, he’s losing blood at a rapid rate. Desperation starts clawing at me as I try to think as thunder rumbles above me. I grab the medical kit and try to open the zipper, fingers shaking so much, it takes me several tries. I stare at the contents, shaking so violently I struggle to keep the bag in my hands. Doubt starts to roll through me, so I close my eyes and take a deep breath of the salty air.

Lightning discharges across the sky, illuminating the beach, and letting me know the heavens are about to open, so I grit my teeth and grab the scissors from the kit and start cutting his t-shirt away from his body.

Tears start to sting at my eyes, bile rising from the extent of blood covering his torso. I push the shirt to one side and begin to wipe away the blood, fighting nausea, and a spinning sensation as I work.

When I think I’ve found the source of the bleeding, I push a bandage down hard and wait until the blood stops spreading over the dressing. I close my eyes and try to remember how long pressure needs to be applied. Every class I took, every medical show I watched isn’t doing anything to stem the horrific doubt that I’m somehow making it worse.

I start to count the spacing between the thunder, flicking my eyes over the beach in the hopes that someone else will arrive to assist me. When I’ve counted to five hundred, I gently lift the bandage and choke out a sob when no more blood seeps out of the hole in his chest. I’m covered in his blood when I fumble to open a padded bandage, and after two attempts to keep the bandage sterile, I manage to stick it onto his chest.

I rock back on my heels, breathless, tears stinging my eyes as thunder booms all around me. I keep my eyes on him, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the flickering of his lashes that lets me know he’s still alive.

Hail starts to drop from the sky, drowning out my hammering heart. I dart inside, rechecking my cell as the lighting flickers then cuts out, leaving me standing in the dark. I start to pace, alternating between looking at the man unconscious on my deck and the fuse box on the wall. I’ve half convinced myself to leave him and try to drive into town when hail starts to pound on the roof.

With the door open, hail is starting to cover the porch, landing on him and sweeping inside. I take a shuddering breath, trying to calm myself as I see I have no choice but to bring him inside. He groans as I take hold of him and tug. He barely shifts. I’m not strong enough to lift him, and I’ll risk hurting myself if I keep trying.

My eyes light on the rug I keep on the porch swing. I grab it, and after a lot of huffing and puffing manage to get it under him. I mutter under my breath, saving my triumph until he’s safely inside and I’ve closed the door and secured the outer door to the porch.

I’m sweating, breathing ragged when I get him inside, so he’s lying just inside the doorway. I take a second to collect myself, then rush back out so I can close the outer hatches of the ocean-facing windows and doors. My entire body is shaking with exertion and fear when I finish. The wind is screaming around me, plants and shrubs being cut to pieces from it, sending them flying around.

I slam the door shut and re-lock the door behind me, throwing the first aid kit on the floor beside him. Without the light from the beach and all windows bordered up, I’m standing with my back pressed against the door in the near dark. It takes me three tries to light a match, hands shaking so bad I have to stop and take a calming breath several times before I fill the room with flickering light. I’m lighting the fourth when I catch sight of my blood-splattered hands.

I retch and make it to the sink before losing the contents of my stomach. I run the tap, grateful the water is still running and scrub away at my hands, trying to remove the horrific metallic tang from my skin. I glance down at my clothes and swallow back more bile. Crimson stains my shirt, pants, and even my white sneakers. I check on him one more time before I near run to the bathroom, checking my cell one more time, before giving up and using the torch app to light my way as I run the shower.

I’m almost giddy with relief when the water runs warm, sending steam into the frigid room. I strip off my clothes and toss them to the side of the room and scrub my body till it’s raw, eyes flicking to the door as I peep through the shower curtain. I’m so anxious he’ll wake up and find me that I don’t bother to dry my skin properly before shrugging into my robe. I’m warmer, but my hands still carry a shake as I grab the first set of underwear I find and pull it on along with a pair of clean sweat pants and a fitted t-shirt.

My movements are mechanical, I’m on autopilot, trying to think past the thoughts speeding around in my head. The fire I set before Rosie arrived is down to the embers, and I remember enough from first aid to know he needs to keep warm or I risk him going into shock. With an inelegant grunt, I start to tug the rug he lies on closer to the fire. I’m out of breath again when I decide he’s close enough. Even in the dim light, I can see he’s pale, and his lips and fingertips are tinged blue. There’s no way I can move him to remove his wet clothing. With my heart in my throat, I open the first aid kit again and use the scissors to cut his clothing away.

My hand is aching by the time he’s lying motionless; clothing hacked away to reveal a sculptured torso covered in tattoos and strong muscled legs. I scold myself for even noticing, ignoring the way my heart has started to speed up as I look him over. I unlace his boots, scowling down at them wondering why a fisherman would need such sturdy boots with a steel toe.

I yank them off and pull his wet socks off his feet and place them to one side. I manage to remove his clothes, tearing and shredding them, until all he’s wearing is a pair of briefs. My muscles are aching as I cover him with a blanket and slump into the sofa, exhausted and terrified he’s not going to make it through the night.

The fire keeps crackling and popping, the wind is gusting outside, and I am too overwhelmed by what has happened that I just sip my wine and try not to feel a raft of emotions his unexpected arrival seems to be loosening in me. I do my best not to notice how the orange flames flicker over his exposed shoulders and highlight a tattoo of a symbol on his shoulder.

My head is growing light, the room starting to spin, so I give up my vigil and allow my body to relax into the sofa. I check my phone one last time before letting my eyelids droop.

Friday, 10:58 p.m.

Connor:

My eyes flicker open at the same time pain screams through my shoulder and head. Wherever I’ve ended up, I’m warm, dry, and it smells like a cross between a department store and a bakery. I groan as I try to orientate myself, scanning the room for possible trouble, but all I see is tattered furnishings, candles, and flames from the fire I’m lying beside.

The slightest movement coming from across the room makes me jerk upright, sending pain shrieking through my chest. I must have wound up in a beach house. Her beach house. The curvy blonde with piercing blue eyes who found me.

If she had any doubts about my sincerity, I can only hope that since I’m inside her place with her curled up on the sofa fast asleep, she believed my story. I pull myself to my feet, head a little woozy, legs unsteady as all the blood rushes to my feet. I stare at my bare toes and suck in a breath. Fuck! Where are my boots? I’m a dead man without them.

I turn on my heel, panic blazing through me until I see them beside the fire, like she’s trying to dry them out. I smother a groan as she stirs in her sleep. I can’t be here when she wakes up. A shiver creeps down my spine as I try to figure out a way to leave. I can’t imagine what happened to my clothes. There’s a pile of fabric in the corner that I can only guess were once whole garments.

Maybe she’s a nurse? Maybe helping others comes second nature to her? I convince myself that’s why she helped me as I sneak into the back of her house, passing a photo of the woman and a blonde guy with dimples, green eyes, and a tan to match hers. His arms are wrapped around her neck as they both smile at the camera.

Rain batters against the rafters, making me uneasy. It was a stupid move taking the boat out, and I can’t help thinking that was my asshole employer’s intention all along. Out in the harbor, a body is a lot easier to misplace when the seas are rough.

I walk as lightly as I can towards the darkened rooms, hoping I’ll find some clothes I can use. I didn’t see a ring on her finger, and at a cursory glance I’m not seeing any evidence a man lives here with her, but given the photo, the dimpled blonde must be the man in her life.

It’s the perfect spot for a couple to get away from it all. Quiet. Romantic. Secluded. No one comes out this way once the weather turns. Maybe he’s going to turn up any minute and freak out because his woman invited a stranger into his house?

I open the door to the first room as quietly as I can and scan the dark room. There’s a king-size bed, a couple of dressers, wardrobe, but the air inside smells musty like it’s not used anymore. I close the door and check she hasn’t woken before opening the second bedroom door. Unlike the other bedroom, the bed is unmade; clothes are scattered across the floor, the air smells perfumed. I frown and step backward, fighting to keep the rising panic that someone else is going to show up as I return to the other bedroom.

I’m still trying to figure out the puzzle when I open the wardrobe and find it filled with men’s clothing. I check out in the hallway and return my attention to finding something to wear. I don’t exactly need a tailored suit, so I close the wardrobe and ease open one of the dressers. The drawer sticks, sending a squeak resounding around the room that makes me freeze.

When I don’t hear anything apart from the storm outside, I relax and try to locate something easy to pull on so I can get out of here. If she wakes and calls her boyfriend or anyone else and tells them I’m here, I’m pretty much back where I started. I find a couple of things I can wear and shrug them on as carefully as I can. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull on the sweatpants.

I’m breathing hard and sweating when I see her in my peripheral vision. Before I can explain, she screams at me, “Get out of here!”

I’m on my feet in a second, hands raising to defend myself. “I’m sorry. I just needed a set of clothes.”

Her eyes widen in the dark as she takes in the clothes I’ve retrieved. She shakes her head, tossing her blonde hair violently. “Just get out.”

I do as she says, pissed off I didn’t get away before she woke, knowing she’ll have dozens of questions I’m not prepared to answer. She slams the door and stalks past me back towards the living room. I stand in the hallway, leaning against the wall, trying to figure out why she’s so angry.

When my vision starts to swim, I practice an apology and try to convince her I meant no harm. She’s sitting on the sofa, her phone in her hand and her wine glass replenished when she spies me. I catch a flash of fear, then something else as she takes a long swig from her glass. I’m about to apologize again when I notice her hands are shaking and I guess she’s not entirely sure about a random stranger in her home.

I take a seat on the only other place to sit and gesture to the phone I hope doesn’t work. “Can I make a call?”

She shakes her head and takes another drink. “You can try, but there’s no service out here.”

Relief swims through me as I slump back into the sofa and try to figure her out. Her eyes aren’t able to settle in one spot. Her toes are tapping on the carpet as she stares at the fire.

There doesn’t seem to be any real need to keep talking, so I lay my head back and listen to the rain outside.

Her voice startles me, more because she’s moved a little closer and her eyebrows are knotted together like she’s genuinely concerned about me. “Um, I’m glad you are okay. I’m sorry about the clothes. I had to cut yours off. I was worried you’d get hypothermia. Um, can I get you something to drink? Water? Juice? Aren’t you supposed to replenish liquids when you, ah, bleed that much?”

I almost chuckle, but she seems like a sweetheart, so I smile. “That’d be great.” She smiles back, uncertainty written on her face as she moves to get up. I reach forward and grab her forearm. Shock registers on her face as she stares at my hand as though being touched is foreign to her. “Thank you. I think you saved my life.”

Her fingers slide to mine, and she gently pushes me away as though repulsed by my touch. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Let me get that drink.” She rises quickly like she’s in a hurry to get away from me and spins on her heels.

I’m appreciating the way her ass looks when her cell phone chirps. I dart a look in the direction of the kitchen, but if she heard, she isn’t coming back. I snatch up the phone, pulse increasing as I read the message on her unlocked screen.

You ok, Ev? Heard the storm is getting worse. If you want to get out before the bridge floods, you should leave soon. You can crash with me. Hope this message gets to you. Rosie.

“Shit,” I mutter as I check the signal. One tiny bar so she can probably call any number of people, and if the storm is getting worse, I won’t be getting out of here tonight. I stare down at the phone and scowl at it. If she knows she can use her phone, there’s no telling who she’ll contact and what information she’ll give up. I delete the message and place it back on the sofa where she left it and relax back on the chair.

She doesn’t look me in the eye when she enters the room carrying a tray. She hands me a soda like she’s a waitress. “I figured you might need the sugar. I hope that’s not the wrong thing to give you?”

I smile at her and accept the glass. Not a nurse then. “Thanks.”

She gives me a tiny smile before she places the tray with a plate of cookies that look homemade and two mugs of something hot on the coffee table. “Just in case you want a hot cocoa too.”

Fuck me; she’s smoking hot, and she makes cookies?

I try not to stare as she places a few more logs on the fire and lights some more candles like we do this every night, as if I’m the guy in the photo, but since I’m not the guy in the photo, I quit staring at her like a schoolboy with a crush and find the chill that seems to have deserted me.

She retakes her seat and picks up her mug, looking at me through her lashes as she sips. “How did you get the hole in your chest?”

I nearly choke on my drink but cover my surprise as I come up with an answer. “I’m not sure. Everything is a bit of a blur. One minute I was standing on the boat, the next I heard an explosion, and I was in the drink.”

Her eyebrows rise, and I wonder if I’ve pushed it a little too far. “An explosion? The engine blew up?” I nod and take a sip so I don’t have to say anything else. The less she knows, the better. “You must have people worried about you?”

I try to shrug, but it hurts so I just down the rest of my soda and try to reach for a cookie. I must look pathetic because she picks up the plate so she can hand me one. “Do you want me to drive to get the sheriff?”

I pause mid-chew, heart jumping about as I try to keep my voice level. “I’ll just keep trying your phone if that’s okay? Even if I can get a text out, that’s enough till it clears enough for me to leave.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn’t push it, she just takes a cookie and hands me a mug. “Aren’t you going to ask how I got you inside?”

There’s a small amount of teasing in the question that makes my lips quirk. I glance at the rug on the floor, my clothes and boots, and grin at her. “Sorry about that. I didn’t think I should just walk into your house, but I didn’t mean to pass out on you either.”

She laughs a throaty, careless laugh that pulls my insides out and for the stupidest reason makes me want to make her laugh again. I grin at her, and she bites on her lip like she’s amused.

She sips on her cocoa and balances her cookie on her knee as she scoots back further on the sofa. “Do you live around here?”

I force more of the cookie down and chase it with the cocoa. “Not really. I sort of bounce around from place to place.” She nods, but her brow is knotted, and I can see her trying to figure out things she shouldn’t, so I spin the subject back to her. “You make a habit of saving people’s lives?”

Her smile falters a little. “No. You were my first.” When she breaks my gaze and picks up her phone, my already strained heart starts to beat too fast. From the frown on her face, she’s not seeing any new messages. “Do you want to try? The signal does come and go.” She slides across the sofa and extends her phone. “I’d hate to think of someone at home worrying over you.”

I don’t know why, but I want to tell her there isn’t anyone important waiting. Hasn’t been for a long time, and that there’s never been a woman who made me cookies. My voice comes out too thick. “I was just going to text a friend. He can let the coast guard know I’m alive. No one’s waiting for me.”

She swallows, the slightest of blushes caressing her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s none of my business.”

I smile and tap out a text to a random number and hit send, hoping that will allay any fears she has. I flick a glance at the time and leave the phone on the sofa beside her.

She smothers a yawn. “It’s late. Why don’t we go to bed?”

I grin, the temptation too strong to resist. “Sure. But you should know, I’m not one hundred percent right now, darlin’.”

Her eyes widen as she sucks in a breath and nearly jumps to her feet. “I meant separately. You take the sofa; I’ll sleep in my room.” She looks so flustered I laugh as she places a hand to her forehead. “It’s been a long week. I’ll get you some blankets.” She backs away looking like she’s not sure if she wants to throw her wine at me or sit on my lap.

I’m still grinning when she returns with a pile of blankets and a pillow. “I’ll bank the fire so you’ll be warm enough.” She swallows as she hands me a toothbrush and a soap. “In case you feel up to a shower in the morning. The fire heats the water so as long as it stays in we should be fine until the electricity comes back on.” I’m about to suggest we conserve water by showering together when she sends me a thousand-watt smile that steals my breath and every single one of my jokes. “Um, and I’m Evelyn.”

I stumble over my name, though it won’t make a difference. I’ll be gone before it can matter. “Connor. I hope I’m not putting anyone out by staying the night?”

I tug at my clothes and gesture at the photo. All the color seems to fade from her face as she shakes her head. “Goodnight, Connor.”

Though she doesn’t say another word, her posture as she blows out all but one candle that she takes with her says I’ve put my foot in it with her.

I pull myself off the chair, pain searing through my torso as I catch sight of her as she pulls the bedroom door closed, but it’s not the king-size she’s heading into. It’s the messy smaller bedroom. Like a punch to the gut, I realize the guy in the photo isn’t coming back any time soon. Whatever happened to him, the last thing she wants or needs is the guy’s wardrobe on display again and me to take care of.

Her cell phone is where I left it. I grab it and check for a signal and am relieved there aren’t any messages waiting for her. If the bridge is going to wash out like her friend Rosie says, I’m not going to be able to leave anytime soon.

I should be happier about being locked up in a cozy beach house with a beautiful woman, and a part of me is. The problem is the part that loves being here is the part that always gets me in trouble.

I throw the pillow behind me and try to get comfortable, wishing I’d thought to ask her for something to dull the pain. I should be pleased the pain is currently keeping my brain sharp, and it’s the only thing that’s keeping me on track and focused on why I ended up wounded in the first place.

I stare at the photo of Evelyn and the nameless man embracing her. They obviously lived here together and shared the bedroom she’s locked up like some weird shrine to him. I’m effectively stuck here until the storm passes, so I figure I’m at the least entitled to make sure I didn’t stumble on a crazy. No normal woman would live out here unless she’s got a loaded gun, knows Kung-Fu, or has a reason to need some serious amounts of privacy.

I shoot a look at the doorway and pick up her cell phone to check her out. Her calendar is pretty dull. A lot of meetings, the occasional doctor’s appointment. Lunch with friends. Nothing that makes me think she’s a serial killer, or a black widow or anything similar. I start reading through her messages, a good amount are from Rosie who texted earlier, most of which seem to be offers to set Evelyn up on blind dates, and she responds to all of them with polite dismissal, leaving me more baffled than before. It’s obvious the guy in the photo has done a number on her. She’s still hung up on him, but why I even care is the bigger mystery. It must have been the cookies. Either that or she laced the cocoa.

I smother a yawn and check through her emails on the off chance she’s ordered something serial killer-ish, like ten rolls of duct tape, or lots of shovels and plastic tarp online but she’s decidedly boring. So much so, I’m getting sleepy despite the pain, so I put the phone back the way it was and leave it on the coffee table.

The rain is battering the roof, the wind is squealing outside, but inside with the crackling fire, with cookie crumbs on my borrowed shirt, I could almost think I’m getting a little vacation from my shitty life. I close my eyes and smile as I start to think about things I probably shouldn’t be thinking about, things that even if I was up for physically can’t happen.

I try not to dwell too long as those thoughts switch rapidly and I start imagining various scenarios that all involve her feeding me cookies, that all end in me stripping off her baggy clothes to see what she’s hiding underneath.

My lips curl into a smile. Maybe this weekend isn’t going to be so bad after all?