Body sailing backward.
Back hitting the floor.
There’s a grunt—a manly grunt—and I’m in motion again.
I slap on the light switch, and the man on the floor squints at me.
“What thefuck?” I yelp as I confirm at least one paranoid suspicion.
Heat courses from my scalp, down my forehead and over my eyelids, from my nose to my cheeks and ears, then spreads to my jaw and neck.
My heart tries to hammer itself into my breastbone.
My knees wobble and my stomach rolls over at the sight before me.
Today was supposed to be the best wedding ever.
And it’s just gone completely sideways.
A wedding crasher who made me start a glitter bomb war. My imaginary fiancé wiped out on the tile after breaking into my museum. And a separate dark-clothed figure fleeing my storage room.
The exit door clicks shut.
“I’msafe?” I yelp as a man I very much should not yell at blinks at me once more from the floor, then pulls himself to sitting.
He looks at the door to the outside world that the second person escaped through, then down, his gaze going toward the shattered coffee mug and the spilled coffee with a smear in it where his boot hit it, then looks at me again.
Swear he’s thinking about getting up and running after whoever just fled here.
You know. While he might have a concussion.
That wouldn’t be even more problematic than the break-in happening at all.
I order my sarcastic side to hush as I dash around him to the back door and fling it open, peering out into the night.
No lights back here. Just the shadows of the backside of the water park across the alleyway. It’s closed for the winter.
“Don’t—” Davis starts but cuts himself off with a grunt.
Dammit.
Dammit.
I have to pick between dashing into the night to track someone who could’ve gone any direction around the corner of the building and tending to someone who might have a concussion.
Davis’s brown manbun is lopsided. His beard is still thick, but less bushy than the last time I saw him, like he trimmed it for the wedding. And his brown eyes stare at me blankly.
I’ve decided after most of my occasional encounters with him over the past few years that his blank look doesn’t mean there’s nothing going on in his head.
Rather, it means he’s trained himself well to not give any clues as to what’s going on in his head.
But in this situation, I don’t trust blankness.
In this situation, I actively dislike blankness.
Nurse Sloane takes over from Freaking Out Sloane, and I squat beside him. “Are you hurt?”
He blinks, and a different blankness schools his features. This isn’tI’m knocked outblankness.
