She glared at the zipper. It was too tiny for her fingers to grasp, but she tried anyway.
She tried and she tried, but all she got for her effort were sore fingertips and enough frustration to heat a tincture to boiling.
She needed to ask for help.
The pit of her stomach twisted until it resembled the knotted rawhide bone Radish liked to carry around. Asking for a place to stay was one thing.
Asking for help taking her clothes off…
Scissors.
She’d ask for scissors.
She poked her head out the door. Nothing moved, nothing creaked. She couldn’t even hear the refrigerator running. A small bit of light drifted up the stairs, but no shadows. If Jackson and Radish were down there, they were being awful quiet.
She went back to the bathroom and dug into the drawers again. No razors. No scissors. She had fingernail clippers in her purse, but they weren’t strong enough to split the fabric of her dress. It would take all night to trim her hem one stitch at a time with nail clippers. Who knew she needed to carry a seam ripper in her emergency kit?
The dress was too fitted to pull over her head, but she tried.
No luck.
Something flashed downstairs. The TV.
Jackson was still up.
She took a big gulp of courage and tiptoed to the stairs. A male voice spoke over a crowd.
Football game.
Radish stepped onto the small landing two steps up fromthe ground floor and sniffed in Anna’s direction.
Jackson said something softly. The dog looked toward his voice, then crawled another step toward Anna.
The TV went silent.
Radish stared up the stairs. Her soft brown eyes seemed to say, “I only wanted to make sure you’re okay, and now I’m in trouble.” Anna stood between dog and master.
She took one step down, then another, until she reached the landing. Jackson paused, his hand on Radish’s collar. His gaze traveled up the length of her body until his ever-darkening eyes stared right into hers.
She licked her lips and tightened her fingers around the banister. He was barefoot, in navy sweat pants and the military-issue white cotton undershirt that accentuated the olive tones in his skin. “Anna?”
Scissors. She needed scissors. But her arm went up as if someone was up on the second floor, pulling her strings. She pointed at her zipper. “I need help.”
His adam’s apple bobbed. Despite the quiver in his lips that told her he was trying, there was no hint of humor in his strained voice. “Not so hard to say, now, is it?”
Her own voice wavered. “The zipper broke.”
He stepped up to the landing and leaned in close enough for her to remember she hadn’t showered in hours. His fingers grazed her between the dress and her raised arm. At his touch, a tremor rippled from her skin all the way to her bones, then bounced back again.
“Hold tight,” he said. “Got something that’ll work.”
He stepped off the stairs and headed toward the kitchen. She scrubbed her hands over the goose bumps that popped up in the absence of his presence.
She should’ve had a ketchup shot before she came down here.
Radish sprawled on the landing. Her snout rested on Anna’s foot. If it hadn’t, Anna might’ve run back upstairs and slept in the damn dress.
Jackson returned. His loose-limbed, measured stride was completely at odds with his darkened eyes and pinched lips. Her neck and shoulders were so tight they probably had their own frequency. She tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry. Her voice came out a husky croak. “Scissors?”
