Chapter Nineteen
Pepper’s alarm clock ticked on the nightstand, each passing second drilling into her brain.
Tick.
Loser.
Tick.
Failure.
Tick.Pathetic.Fifteen minutes past ten. She picked up a pillow and crushed it against her head with a groan. Was Rhett showing up? Was the second hand getting louder?
She rolled over, scowling at the motivational sticker quotes she’d stuck to her day planner during the Greyhound ride south. “Believe it to achieve it!” “Clear your mind of can’t!” “The path to success starts with the choices you make!”
Ugh.Talk about the disempowerment of positive thinking. All those chipper, generic phrases left her empty. She threw back the sheets, stalked to the dresser, and slathered on hand lotion. After the slimy run-in with Judge Hogg she’d taken a hot shower and had looked forward to seeing Rhett, to the distraction of sex, the salve of an orgasm—or two.
Three if it wasn’t too greedy.
She nibbled the edge of her thumbnail. Waiting wasn’t the only option. Here in the twenty-first century, when a woman wanted a booty call, it was her prerogative to dial one up.
She moved on to biting her pointer nail. But all her life she’d chased everything, was always in pursuit of one goal or another. For once,shewanted to be pursued, to be the goal, to be chased by a man who’d improve a crappy day with the delicate flick and twirl of his talented fingers.
Honk.
“Ugh.” Her groan slipped out on its own accord as the memory crowded away all others. The judge couldn’t have genetically engineered a more perfect insult. She’d never be able to repeat the story and be taken seriously. It was too laughably bad.
She snapped the lotion lid and wandered to her window. Light flooded between Rhett’s verticals blinds. Faulkner must have caught a whiff of her pathetic yearning. He flew through the curtains, paws scratching the glass with a “Heya neighbor!” woof.
Busted! She hit the deck, glimpsing a flash of Rhett’s arm on her way down. Her chin grazed the shabby gray carpet. Did he see her lurking? And second, what business did he have taunting her with such a stupidly, sexy forearm? Her heart leapt from her chest like a darn cartoon.
Tick.
Tick.
Seventeen past ten. She commando-crawled beneath the window to her bed and raised an arm, fumbling for her e-reader. This might be crossing the invisible line separating sane from crazy. Time to breathe. Regroup. If Rhett blew her off, so be it. No more mooning around, spying, or impersonating a soldier in the trenches. She’d hang out here on the carpet, read her book, and make her own fun with a deliciously depraved duke.
Except it was impossible to follow the plot’s rapid-fire drawing room banter when her mind kept wandering from Regency London to present-day small-town Georgia. Plus the floor made her back hurt.
She tossed the duke book beside her with a muffled groan.
Life had screwed her, and she’d lain there with teeth-gritted endurance, thinking of England. But then Rhett came along, took her into his arms, urged her to ride faster, harder, deeper, and a realization slammed through her at the same time as her fourth orgasm. She wanted to be back in life’s saddle.
She froze at the sound of furtive rustling outside. Heart thumping, she rose to her knees, head cocked.
There it came again—muffled steps—either Rhett or an axe murderer. Her pulse accelerated. Someone rapped on the back door and she bounced to her feet, heat flooding her core. Bad guys don’t knock, but Southern gentlemen do.
Before entering the kitchen, she mussed her hair and artfully tugged her sleeping shirt to one side, exposing a shoulder.
Show time.
Rhett stood on the top step holding a brown paper bag, a gleam in his baby blues. Her knees involuntarily flexed.
“What happened today?” he asked in a firm, low-pitched voice.
She crossed her arms. “Hello to you, too.”
“Sorry. I heard you had a run-in with Judge Hogg.” He strode inside, setting the bag on the table. “Lots of rumors, but no facts. What did he do to you?”
