“Needed one more kiss.”
Shaking my head, I reach for the doorknob before twisting it. “Bye, Jett.
“See you later, Whiskey.” And with a wink, he’s bounding back down the stairs.
Unease prickles along my spine as I step inside, my smile fading. Flicking on the lamp, I look around my living room. Nothing seems amiss. Dropping my bag at my feet, I step deeper into my house and toward the kitchen.
Turn around and call Jett. Hell,your brother is a sheriff officer, call him.
But I don’t listen to myself. I’m convinced I’ve hyped up the situation. Last night’s donor check with Elias’s initials is sparking sudden worry.
I step into the kitchen, scanning the room. Everything seems to be in place. The coffeepot still has leftover coffee. Mugs are on the drying rack. Mail sits on the corner of the counter.
But the air feels…off. I can’t quite put my finger on why, but it does.
Walking around the counter, a breeze drifts down the hall, freezing me to my spot. Taking a deep breath, I push open the slightly closed bathroom door. A rush of air smacks my face, and I gasp.
The curtain flaps in the breeze, the sound startling me. My pulse ticks as I cross the room slowly. Fear courses through my veins as I reach for the shower curtain. This is the part in movies where the masked man hides behind the curtain before jumping out and stabbing the naive girl who stayed in the house.
One.
Two.
Three.
I count before ripping open the curtain and jumping back. Nothing.
No masked man hiding behind the curtain. As much as masked men are trending in the romance book world, that’s not my kind of hero. I’m too much of a chicken. Give me the rugged cowboy in the tight Wranglers.
Wait, focus, Wren. We’re not dreaming of fictional boyfriends right now. You might have an actual problem on your hands. Wake up, woman!
Turning on my heel, I walk to the window. Darkness has fallen over the field behind my house, and I can’t escape the feeling of being watched. I grip the top of the window, yanking it closed and flipping the lock as fast as I can.
You’re paranoid. No one is out there.
As I turn away, a chill slides down my spine, leaving a shiver in its wake. I can’t explain the sensation putting me on edge.
I glance over my shoulder, prepared to find eyes watching me, but I see nothing.
Still, I yank the curtains closed before moving through the cottage, taking time to check every lock on every window and door, each closet, and around every corner. With the cottage secured, I still can’t shake the feeling of being watched, even though every curtain is closed.
Paranoia is a dangerous feeling. It slithers up your spine, wrapping its creepy fingers over every inch of your being, leaving you with crippling dread.
I tell myself it’s nothing as I go upstairs to prepare myself for a sleepless night.
Chapter 32
Jett
I’vefacedalivefire with steadier hands than I have opening my grandparents’ front door tonight. The last family dinner Wren and I attended was a fiasco. Neither one of us has gone to one since. We’ve both had private conversations with our parents about their reasons, and even though it happened years ago, it’s a fresh wound now. Wren and I are healing and moving forward in a way I’ve dreamt of, which helps the whole forgiveness thing. While it tore us further apart, it didn’t break us completely.
My palm rests against the worn brass knob, the grooves smooth from decades of use, and for a second, I breathe. Sounds from inside filter through the open windows since there’s no central air in the cabin. I’ve offered many times to foot the bill, but Grandma reassures me they’ve survived this long, why change it?
My chest tightens as I exhale deeply. Wren’s soft hand squeezes mine, and I inhale her perfume. I glance down at her, and she’s calm. Too calm as she smiles up at me, but it’s not the same smile I left her with last night. Don’t get me wrong, she looks beautiful in that effortless way she always does. A sundress flows around her ankles, hair pulled back in a clip, loose waves framing her pink cheeks from yesterday’s sun, exposing new freckles.
But her eyes tell a different story. They’re dimmer, almost as if shadows have crept back into her whiskey eyes. The goldflecks are nonexistent, like she didn’t get any sleep last night, like endless thoughts were keeping her awake.
My brain has been on high alert, racking all the possibilities. I texted her when I got home, telling her again how much the last few days meant to me. Then I called her this morning as I was heading home from morning chores. She sounded tired, but I thought it was from the hangover. But knowing and seeing her now, I don’t think that’s it.
