But sleep doesn't come. I glance at my phone. It's just after four in the morning. Is she going to keep me awake every night for as long as I live?
Four days since I last saw her. How many times am I going to count the damn days? Sure, I caught glimpses of her in town, surrounded by the girls, buying stuff for her new house.
I nod; she glares—still pretty much hung up on my arresting her, I'm sure—and then we part ways.
I kick off the covers and pull on a pair of jeans and a shirt.
"I'm just doing what needs to be done," I keep telling myself so I can sleep again, because whatever I'm doing isn't working.
I need to fucking sleep. That's all.
It's four fifteen in the morning when I set out. The sky is mostly inky black, but hints of indigo are splashed over it in places, the horizon jagged in preparation for a Candy Creek sunrise. We're heading into cooler months now after a blistering hot summer.
I make one stop, then head to her house. I nearly knock her door down. She's not a morning person; she's going to love me for this. I can't help but grin.
Chapter Ten
Marlowe
Everything is perfect, I tell myself as I snuggle into my pillow, unsure of what exactly broke the thread of my dream.
My house is coming along slowly but nicely, thanks to my new friends. I didn't have good friends I wanted to hang out with all the time back in the city; everyone was focused on getting ahead, making it more about networking than meaningful connections. Why did I wait so long to form a friend group? Right, I had to pack up and move to Candy Creek, population: 5,135, if I'm included.
I've acquired a few great pieces of furniture, and we made plans to visit the next town, which has a much bigger furniture store and a huge flea market on Saturdays, according to the girls.
In broad daylight, it was clear that Turner Richards, the guy I bought the cottage from, hadn't done a good job cleaning out the place. It seems he only had the main bedroom cleaned; the rest of the house was a mess.
I'm just glad there aren't any other things living in the house with me—furry things, or things with scales or wings, or anything that scurries around at night. I didn't find a single unwanted guest of the vermin kind, and best of all, Benjamin Lawrence hasn't made another appearance. I guess I showedhim. Also, I lock up like a warden at night so he can't sneak in and surprise me again.
Turning my house into a home is an overall great experience. I like it. It's taking shape. I could totally live here and not have a care in the world for the rest of my life.
It's going to be perfect. Well, as perfect as it can be if I don't take into account the grumpy sheriff who arrested me on my first night in Candy Creek and who won't leave my thoughts alone, not for a second. Him and his stupid, handsome face.
I also don't like the fact that I find myself seeking him out—to show him I'm prospering, I tell myself—because I need to see his face again.
I've only caught glimpses of him, a glance the length of a breath. My heart races, my nipples swell, and my panties feel too tight against my wet clit. But I'd rather walk straight into a beehive than let him know how I feel, so to cover up the fact that my body is on fire at just the sight of him, I glare at him, hard, without mercy, so he has no idea just how wet I am.
But ugh, the man even bothers me in my sleep. I grumble and turn around. Except I can hear his voice now, calling my name a little too clearly.
"Leave me alone," I mutter.
But he won't leave me alone, and now there's incessant banging somewhere too. What is going on?
Consciousness comes to me in slow degrees. My eyes open against their will. I unlock my ears too. Two things become clear: it's the middle of the night, and the sheriff is banging my door down, telling me to open up.
There really isn't any emergency that warrants him banging my door down at this hour, and I want to scream at him for waking me up. It's unethical, to say the least.
Still half-dazed but furious, I grab a pair of jeans and a loose tank top-style sweater. I want to be fully clothed when I confront him. Besides, he's seen enough of me anyway.
After slipping on a pair of soft boots, I stomp down the hallway, swing the door open with more strength than I knew I had, and for a second, I wonder if I tore it off its hinges. I'm that mad, and there stands the man.
He's so fucking gorgeous, I actually quite hate him.
My hair is a mess, my sweater is not only inside out but also on backward, and I can barely open my eyes.
"Come on," he says, all wide awake and attractive. Ugh.
"It's the middle of the night."
