Another pause, but this time it was shorter, and when Wren answered, he heard the smile in her voice, loud and clear. “I’d like that. Saturday sounds perfect.”
Elias let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Great. It’s a date then. And Wren?”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t wait to see you.”
“I can’t wait to see you either, Elias.”
Twenty-four hours later,Elias stood on his front porch, laughing. In one hand he held a large manila envelope he’d found taped to his door, along with a note:
Dear Elias,
I realized that I’m not a very good kidnapper (clothesnapper?) and that I’m falling down on the job. Enclosed, please find proof of life along with an article of MY clothing so that we can do a proper hostage swap on Saturday. Though I have to say,your jeans tend to hug me every time I put them on, and so does your t-shirt when I wear it to bed. What I’m saying is, they might not want to come home. Sorry not sorry.
Yours in Stockholm Syndrome,
Wren
In his other hand, he held three 8x10 glossy photographs pulled from the envelope which made him laugh even harder. There they were in the photos—proof that his jeans and t-shirt were alive and well. In the first photo, they were outside and posed so that it looked like an invisible man was wearing them and leaning against a tree. In the second photo, they were laid out on Wren’s bed, kicking back and watching TV with a bowl of popcorn, her pair of slippers posed so that they looked like dogs begging for a stray piece of popcorn.
But he liked the third photo the best. Wren, her hazel eyes sparkling with their usual mischief, wearing his jeans and tee and holding a handwritten sign that said:
Miss you.
The envelope felt too light to be holding much in the way of clothing, but something lay at the bottom, wrapped carefully in tissue paper. He tucked the note and photos under his arm, pulled out the bundle, and tore the tissue paper open.
Five minutes later, with Chuck and Penny at his feet, Elias sat in front of his computer, composing an email:
Dear Clothesnapper,
Thanks for the proof of life, especially the third photo. While I appreciate the hostage-swap gesture, you still have me at a huge disadvantage. You’ve only presented me with one hostage while you have two. I demand a second hostage of the same caliber from you before Saturday, or else you will never see this one again.
Yours in Stockholm Syndrome,
Elias
P.S. You are NOT getting a photo of me wearing this hostage. Ever. Sorry not sorry.
“Take that,” he said as he hit ‘send’ then picked up the silky, lacy, sexy-as-hell panties that weighed less than the tissue paper she’d wrapped them in.
“Nope, not wearing these.” His lips curved into a sexy smile. “But you definitely will before I rip them off you again.”
Friday night, exhausted, coming home hours late from his shift—a full moon on a Friday night always brought extra trauma and drama—Elias’ mood lifted immediately when he saw another envelope and note tacked to his door. He heard Penny and Chuck pacing and scratching at the other side of the door. Of course they’d gotten out again.The kid must have forgotten to lock the door again. He unstuck the envelope and note, then went inside to see what trouble they’d gotten into.
Coffee grounds, eggshells, and a torn-up coffee filter all over the kitchen floor. Per usual, Chuck looked guilty as hell while Penny spun in circles, hoping to charm her way out of trouble.
“Yup. Full moon drama. Guys, I am taking up Shane’s suggestion of obedience classes at Watchdog for the two of you.”
On top of the day he’d just had, Elias should’ve been pissed. But the thought of what might be in the envelope cured him of that. He quickly cleaned up the mess, declining ‘help’ from Chuck, then read the note:
Dear Hostage Negotiator,
You drive a hard bargain, so I’m forced to send you a second hostage. This time, I’m including proof that said hostage does truly belong to me. Since you’ll probably refuse to wear this hostage as well, I guess I’ll just have to wear them both—if I get them back. How’s that for incentive?
See you at the hostage swap tomorrow. Say 10:00?
Your Shameless Clothesnapper,
