Frustration gnaws at me. I check the clock on the wall. I have no idea how long I have, and fucking with something I probably won’t get into does me no good. So, I move to the desk.
The laptop is closed. I try the lid. It’s shut with a cable lock, but the cable is just wound around the leg of the desk. Easy fix. I untangle it, set it aside, and then lift the lid. The screen is password locked. The sticky note on the side saysMOLLY2021but it’s a decoy. I try it, and the lockout timer instantly triggers.
Fuck.
In the nightstand, I find a dusty old Bradford family Bible. How cliché.
I check the bathroom, the medicine cabinet. More neatness, more order. There’s a toothbrush, a tube of face cream I doubt he uses, and a razor with a black hair caught in the blade.
I look at myself in the mirror for a split second and see the ghost version of Jenna Kellan—pale, anxious, hair straggling loose from the ponytail, and eyes ringed with worry and insomnia. I look like someone you’d cross the street to avoid.
Which is probably for the best, really.
I look away from myself, and then freeze.
A roar of a diesel engine. And a door slams.
My heart stutters, and I retreat to the edge of the door.
The sound of boots on the gravel, and then steps on the porch echo through the night.
Shit, shit, shit.
I slip into the hall, and then quickly duck into the office as the front door jiggles. It’s so dark that I nearly trip over my own feet, but I find the closet by touch and wedge myself in behind the coats and the utility shelf.
This is so bad. So, so bad.
The front door opens with a bang. He doesn’t even bother to be quiet. I hear him toss his keys on the counter, then stomp intothe kitchen. There’s the pop of a fridge door, the clink of glass. Then a sigh, long and raw.
I want to throw up.I am so fucked right now.
I wait, muscles locked, every part of me aching for an escape. He’s moving through the house and heading my way. I inch my eye to the crack in the closet door. I can see the edge of the office—just a sliver of the desk, the top of the chair.
And then he enters, tall and broad and backlit by the glow from his phone. He still has that stupid cowboy hat on that accentuates his jaw and probably gives every woman a mini orgasm when they see it. He sits at the desk, cracks his knuckles, and then opens the computer.
Oh my god.I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to give myself away with my freight train breathing. When my lids open, I swallow the nerves and just focus on the man who is both terrifying and intriguing.
He types with two fingers, punching the keyboard in a way that’s angry and calm, all at once. He opens a browser. His face glows blue, then white, as he clicks through tabs.
Then my stomach drops through the fucking floor.
He typesDr. Jenna Williamsinto the search bar. He finds my Instagram in three seconds flat, clicks it, and then just…stares at my profile photo.
Before hitting therequest to follow button.
My phone lights up in my pocket with the notification. I angle the phone in my pocket and use my thumb to do the dumbest thing possible.
I approve it.
The room is so silent I can hear my own pulse.
He leans back in the chair as my pictures fill the screen, most of them just generic photos that point to nothing about my life. Calvin’s jaw seems to tick, and he leaves one hand on the mouse, while the other…slides down into his lap.
My jaw drops.No. No fucking way.
Butyes. He’s staring at my photos and his hand is on his dick, working slow, almost bored.
I can’t move. I can’t even breathe.
