Caught up in our chat, I’d tuned out everything but the gorgeous grump in front of me.
“Hear what?” I fold my arms, brows arched. “Strange…loud…squeaks?”
Knox’s eye roll tells me he catches the splash of sarcasm in my tone. “Wait here while I check it out.”
Wait here?Alone? For some loud, squeaky, squealy monstrosity to make a grab-and-go meal out of me?
Yeah, no thanks.
“Um,” I chirp, and Knox turns to face me, his brows knitted. “Since you don’t know your way around this house, won’t it be helpful if I come along?”
Knox shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll be fine. Crystal Cove Beach homes have identical layouts. But if you wanna tag along…” he trails off, resuming his trek toward the hallway. “Stay behind me.”
Well, alrighty then.
Bossy Pants leads us down the hallway toward the bathroom, floorboards creaking beneath our feet.
I probably look silly, following so closely behind him on tiptoes, padding past cerulean walls adorned with beach-themed artwork. Ms. Palmer’s house definitely exudes a sense of tranquility, a peaceful retreat, apart fromCasper, that is.
As we step into the bathroom—bubbles spilling from the clawfoot tub, a soggy copy ofPet Sematarybobbing on the surface—those eerie squeals intensify.
By instinct, I grab hold of Knox’s shirt.
“Sorry,” I whisper, releasing my grip. “Sorta feels like we’re starring in a horror movie.”
“Yeah, especially since one of us has been reading a Stephen King novel.”
This time, I catch a splash of sarcasm inhistone. “Haha. Very funny.”
Knox’s dark perusal flits to the bathroom’s vaulted ceiling, his ankle-sock-covered feet planted on bright, aquamarine tiled flooring.
And, as he stands in the middle of the room, arms folded, it’s difficult for me to pull my attention elsewhere. Not when the nylon fabric of his shirt stretches across those bulging biceps.
My mouth waters as “relationship detox” me wonders how it would feel to be wrapped in his arms.
Ohmygosh. Am I salivating?
I need to get a hold of my hormones. Remind myself he’s probably married, has three kids, and a golden retriever named after an old president.
Still, I’m not going to lie: he’s a perfect distraction from the horror-movie noises blaring from above.
“I’ll check the attic,” Knox says, stepping toward me. He gives a pointed look. “You? Stay put. I mean it.”
“Fine.” I fold my arms over my chest. “I’ll wait in the hallway and listen in case you call for help.”
What’s the point in arguing with His Royal Bossiness? Besides, I can pop into the bedroom to change out of this robe and into something less revealing.
Moments later, after slipping into a white tee and shorts, I practically stumble back into the hallway, in a hurry and not too graceful about it.
Seconds tick past before I hear footsteps above me, followed by a deafening silence.
“Knox?” I call out, heartbeat thrumming.
But there’s no response.
All hopes he’d save me from giant, ghost rats vanish into thin air.
Panic sets in, a montage of grim scenarios flickering through my mind in rapid-fire sequence.
