“I guess I’ll have to wake you up and find a way to quiet you.”
“That’s a promise I can get on board with.”
“I’m an old man. Twice in the same night is not happening.”
“Maybe not for you, but no reason you can’t do things?—”
He covered her mouth. “Don’t tempt me. Now, close your eyes and get some sleep.”
“On one condition.”
“I’m not sure I want to hear this.”
“More like a question.” She rested her chin on his chest. “When was the last time you tested the theory on whether or not?—”
“Years,” he admitted. “But I know morning will work, and I like shower sex, so let’s not ruin that for me, okay?”
“Jeez, you’re demanding.”
“You have no idea.” He kissed her sweet lips and then closed his eyes.
His last coherent thought before he drifted off was that he'd deal with the consequences of this night sometime—probably in the near future. For now, he'd just relish having her in his arms.
Even if it was only temporary.
Even if he didn't deserve her.
Chapter Eight
Fallon gasped, jerking awake, her heart pounding hard enough for it to hurt.
She blinked, unable to focus on anything but darkness. It was thick, quiet, and wrong. She slowed her breathing, hoping it would steady her racing pulse. Buddy’s warmth registered as her eyes adjusted to the thin light of the moon carving through the window. The sound of something dragging against wood tickled her ears and every muscle stiffened. Then came a shatter, muffled, but no mistaking the source. Glass.
She flung aside the sheet and was halfway upright when Buddy’s hand closed around her wrist, steady, quiet. She gasped.
“What?” he whispered.
“I heard something—like glass breaking.”
He was out of bed in a blink, the mattress lifting with his weight. He reached for the nightstand. “Shit. Gun is in the truck.”
She slid open the dresser drawer, fingers shaking only a little, and pulled out her Glock. “There’s another weapon in the closet.”
Buddy raced toward the side of the room. The low light cut over the muscle in his shoulders as he moved. He yanked open the door. “Where?”
“Shelf. Pink shoebox.”
He reached up, snagged the box, pulled out the weapon, then spun and snagged his cell. His face lit up under the dimmed screen as he thumbed at it one-handed.
“What are you doing?” she asked, hiking up her shorts and pulling her shirt over her head.
“Sterling. Dove. Dawson,” he said. “Better safe than sorry.” He found his pants and managed to stumble into them as if this were his normal routine.
Fallon’s heart drummed in her ears—the kind of pulse that made sound feel thick and close.
They moved fast—barefoot, practiced, silent. The floorboards were cool underfoot. The faint scent of pear from her candles filled the air. The AC kicked on, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Buddy gave her a hand signal, pointing toward the left. Then he moved right.
