I set the mug down so hard that coffee sloshes over the rim and sprint down the hallway. Behind me, Ryder is still working in the studio. I have maybe two minutes.
My feet slide on the hardwood as I rush into my room.
The bed is a disaster—sheets twisted, pillows askew, comforter half on the floor. Clothes are scattered across every surface. Yesterday’s bra is draped over the headboard. The chair in the corner is buried under rejected outfit options from Friday night.
I move like a Tasmanian devil. Grab the comforter, yank it up, smooth it over the sheets. Fluff the pillows. Straighten the nightstand. I collect clothes in a growing ball in my arms—jeans, sweaters, the offending bra, socks that ended up on opposite sides of the room.
In my frenzy, I kick something. My wireless speaker skitters across the floor and disappears under the bed. Whatever. I’ll rescue it later. Right now, I need to hide the literal dirty laundry.
I give the room one last sweep with my gaze, and when I can’t see any more red flags, I shuffle to the washer closet to drop everything in my arms into the basket. I sag back at the kitchen table, even more out of breath.
By the time Ryder’s footsteps sound in the hallway, I’m perched on a stool with my laptop open in front of me, the picture of a dedicated teacher working on lesson plans. Except I’m not taking in any of the text on the screen, or adding any input. My only functioning sense is my hearing, and I have it hyper-tuned on Ryder.
The idea of him in my bedroom sends heat coursing through me. It’s deeply unsettling. But underneath the panic, there’s a throbbing, disturbing pulse, this inexplicable prickle of anticipation.
I shouldn’t be imagining him standing beside my bed, or what he’d look like on it. But my brain has other ideas.
What would happen if I stood up right now, walked down that hallway, and joined him? If I pressed my hands against his chest and pushed him backward onto my hastily made bed?
Would he let me? Or would he grab my hips and flip me over, pressing me into the mattress with his hard body, his lean muscles pinning me down while his calloused hands?—
A woman’s voice suddenly fills the cottage, breathy and dramatic: “Sarina felt the whisper of his magic again as his pants slid off.”
The audiobook I was listening to last night has resumed playing in my bedroom.
At full volume.
And of course it’s fairy smut, paused in the middle of a sex scene.
“She barely had time to register his black undershorts before they too vanished.”
Oh, fucking hell. I take off running.
“Her fantasies of undressing him paled against reality. The sculpted muscles of his thighs, the elegant taper from waist to narrow hips, the defined V leading downward to his very large?—”
I skid through the threshold of my bedroom, yelling to cover the narrator’s voice finishing that sentence.
I scream. Loud, high-pitched, and mortified.
Ryder stands frozen near the air-conditioning vent. He’s holding his phone in one hand, the filter in the other, and looks like he’s been struck by lightning. His eyes are wide. His mouth parted. And a flush creeps up his neck, turning the tips of his ears red.
“What happened?” I choke out as the audiobook continues its relentless narration.
“His fingers grazed her lace-trimmed underwear. ‘These have to go.’”
“I don’t know—” Ryder starts, his voice strangled. “My phone connected to your speaker, and when I turned off the Bluetooth?—”
“At his command, invisible forces tugged them away. The playfulness of his magic faded beneath the intensity of his gaze; the Lord of the High Court was watching her with unmistakable intent.”
Ryder hesitates, visibly embarrassed. “—and the, err… narration started.”
We’re staring at each other, aghast as the darn audiobook keeps going.
“She pressed against his chest until he fell back. His arms circled her waist, pulling her astride him. As her hair spilled around them, Ashren wove it around his fist, using it as a lever to bring her mouth down to his.”
The scene is playing out like the fantasy I was just daydreaming about in my kitchen. This is karma.
I groan loudly. I must’ve activated the Bluetooth link when I kicked the speaker under the bed, prompting Ryder’s phone to connect. And when he turned it off, the connection bounced back to my phone and activated the autoplay.
