Oh, God.
On instinct, I grab two vital items. The first is my cell phone on the coffee table. The second is the baseball bat stashed in the coat closet near the front door. I dial 9-1-1 but don’t hit Send. Without unlocking either the deadbolt or the knob, I shout, “Can I help you?”
“Charlotte Mallory?” The deep rumble on the other side of the locked door isverymale andveryirritated.
“Who’s asking?”
“Are you Charlotte Mallory?” Each growled word is a bullet that seems to penetrate the Georgian Deco Fiberglass door. It came with the house, and I realize now it offers shocking little protection. If the enormous man on the other side of the smoked glass wants in, he’s one hundred percent getting inside my home through this door or the many first-story windows.
Glancing at my cell makes me wonder if I should hit the Send button. My thumb is hovering. All I need to do is lower my finger a fraction of an inch to bring one of Sheriff Tom Whitcomb’s deputies—if nottheman himself—rushing over here.
Instead, I hesitate, shouting, “You’re the one who knocked on this door, pal.”
Why am I engaging with this man? It’s nighttime. It’s pouring. Stranger danger, for fuck’s sake. He has no business darkening my doorstep, and in the beats of rain-soaked silence that follow, I can actually hear the whoosh of my blood and the hammering of my heart. The bat is growing heavy only because my hands are trembling, and I lower my arm before I drop the damn thing.
“Are you Charlotte Mallory?” He repeats the question slowly, each word clearly ground out between gritted teeth.
Daring to step closer to the door, I squint, trying to make out as much of him as possible. Thankfully, he’s standing under the glow of the porch sconce, andhot damn. The man is massive. So tall that the top of his head reaches the upper edge of the doorframe. And wide. Shoulders that broad should be illegal. His hair is dark, the shaggy, wet strands hanging over his face.This man—this stranger—is definitely threatening, and when I back away from the door, I release a breath I’ve been holding.
“That depends on who’s asking.” God, how I hate the tremor in my voice. But honestly, how can I hide it?
I’m rightly terrified.
It looks like he tilts his head to face the sky. Maybe to face the light? I don’t know for sure. But it feels like forever ticks by, and during those pregnant moments, I’m certain the smart course of action is to call 9-1-1 and rid my porch of this unwanted pest.
…and I’m about to do exactly that when Mr. Stranger Danger speaks again and drops one hell of a bomb on me, blowing my practical plan right out of the water.
“Rhys Ravenstone.”
Fuck me.
Chapter Three
Day One
“Ha, ha.” I kick my fluffy-socked foot against the base of the door. “Not funny, asshole. So, what, the whole app thing is a goddamn joke? What’s next, you steal my identity?”
I want to think I’m too smart to get internet scammed, but Jason’s news blindsided me. Lonely as well, and… Wait. No way am I victim-blaming myself here. I’m not in the wrong. I wanted a momentary bit of harmless fun. It’s this jerkoff’s fault for exploiting a person’s good intentions.
“Thisisn’t a fucking joke, Charlotte.” There’s a beat of silence, one heavy moment before, “Open the door.”
Oh, yeah, sure. Pardon me while I also grab my wallet and bank account information for him. I might throw in my social security number, too, for kicks.
“I’m calling the cops.”
“No, you’re not.”
His audacity.
“Yes, I am!”
“You do realize I can see the outline of your body through the glass.”
I glance at myself, at both lowered arms. One hand gripping the bat and the other holding my cell. But I snap my gaze back to him and wish the cool air the storm brought was to blame for the chill that slithers its way up my spine. It’s not. Nope, the fault is solely because of the deep timbre of the man’s voice. Thankfully, I don’t have a total brain meltdown and drag the bat with me when I dash to the dining room window. The angle doesn’t allow me a clear view of him, so I run back to the door, aggravated—and a tad disappointed.
“Move away from the door and go to the grass.Now.” Listen to me, sounding authoritative. This time, there’s not a tremor in my tone despite being absolutely rattled to the deepest depths of my soul.
Oh, my gawd, he acts like I told him to go play in traffic. He huffs and puffs, making a big production of stomping down the three steps of my little porch. I dash back to the dining room and shove aside the chocolate curtains. I wanted wooden statement blinds but remembered how they’re nothing but dust collectors.Lydia ‘The Twatasurus’ Wembley has a small team of cleaners whose sole task is to upkeep the blinds that cover the billion windows of their summer homes—yes, plural.
