Is someone in my garage? Shit, did I leave the door open last night? Is someone trying to steal my things? The one car garage is full of boxes, totes, and furniture I pulled out of storage and haven’t decided whether or not I’m keeping. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving any of it away for free.
I stumble to my feet, gingerly setting the cinnamon roll tube back on the counter before reaching for the phone. I search for Wyatt’s number saved in my favorites. Is it extreme to call the sheriff for backup because I heard a couple of thumps in my garage? Maybe. But I can already hear his voice in my head.Better safe than sorry, Ev.
My finger hovers over the call button, hesitating. My pulse quickens.
“Stop it, Everleigh,” I scold myself.
This is stupid.
Wyatt Knight—sheriff of Emerald Creek—is my best friend’s oldest brother. He’smyfriend. He’s been my first call for everything from loose cabinet doors, to dead car batteries, to emergency ice cream runs since I came back to town a year ago.
We’re friends.
Justfriends.
If I could only convince my stupid brain that whatever happened the night he carried my drunk ass into my apartment meant nothing, maybe I wouldn’t be acting so squirrely around him.
Gah! Why did I decide that getting my bestie rip roaring drunk a few weeks ago atThe Rusty Nailwas a good idea? And why the hell did I decide to join her?Iwasn’t trying to seduce her now boyfriend, Ryder Stone. It was her mission to convince him to turn his family’s failing ranch into an animal sanctuary. Not mine.
If I’d just stayed the sober observer, Wyatt never would’ve had a reason to carry me into my apartment.
He wouldn’t havekissedmy forehead after putting me to bed. Friends can give each other forehead kisses, right? Although, itisentirely possible I imagined that last part. There are moments it feels real and moments I’m convinced I made it up. It’s been an internal battle for weeks now. One that’ll continue on because I refuse to question the source.
The one detail I can’t deny? Waking up in Wyatt’s blue, green, and white button-up shirt because I’d thrown up all over mine.
Another thump reminds me there’s an intruder in my garage, and I fire off a quick text to Wyatt. There. No need to overthink things.
Focus, Everleigh.
Scanning the counter, I realize I’ve yet to unpack the knives. Hell, I’m lucky I was able to find a spoon amidst the chaos. Unfortunately, that particular utensil seems to be the only one I have at my disposal. Maybe I can whap the intruder in the eyeball with it?
I tiptoe to the door, trying like hell to remember if I left my garage door open last night. It’s possible some bluebird or robin is flying around, bumping into things. This is Montana, after all.There’s really no telling if it’s man or beast behind the door. Oh shit, what if it’s a bear? Did I leave a box of pantry items out there? Impossible to know for sure. By the end of the move, all the miscellaneous boxes were dumped in the garage just so everyone could go home.
Another thump rattles the wall followed by some weird tapping sounds.
I stiffen.
It could also be a thief who spotted an easy haul. Just because Emerald Creek is a small town doesn’t mean there aren’t dishonest people—just ask Wyatt. Someone’s always passing through. Shit, what if it’s a murderer coming to chop me into pieces he’ll later scatter across the countryside?
“I really need to stop listening to true crime podcasts before bed,” I mumble under my breath.
I consider propping a chair against the door, wedging the top of it under the doorknob so said intruder can’t break all the way into my house—a tip I recently picked up from one such podcast. But as I scan the overcrowded space for an appropriate chair, a realization sinks in my stomach.
My prized Nikon is in the garage.
“Well that was stupid of me,” I whisper grumble.
I knew better than to leave my most cherished possession out there. In my defense, it was only meant to be stored in the garage temporarily, along with the several boxes of photos from my time in Tornado Alley. Just until I could find a safe space to stash it all. I thought my camera would be safe in its protective case, out ofmysight for a couple of days. But a thief might spot the custom rose gold camera case and see a possible pay day.
I may not be ready to wield the camera that contains dozens of pictures of the life I left behind, but I’m sure as hell not about to let anyonestealit.
A scuffing sound, followed by tapping against the concrete floor, echoes from the other side of the door. My heartrate climbs.
I should wait for Wyatt.
Iwouldwait for Wyatt if it weren’t for my camera.
With a sweaty palm, I grip the doorknob, spoon held at the ready with my other hand.
