You’re all going to die.
Well, that’s not something you want your inner voice to tell you.
Especially not when it tells you that in a creepy, sing-songy voice like something from a horror movie.
That said, it’s totally possible the voice is right. It’s Friday. The day of the North Mountain Pig Show.
And I have no idea how I’m going to save the day.
Maybe you should have spent the night working instead of boning.
That voice is probably also correct. But as I snuggle closer to Grayson’s hard chest, I can’t make myself regret last night.
If that was my last night alive, at least I spent it really living.
I do, however, have a job to do. Reluctantly, I slide out of bed and get ready as quickly as I can. I’m taking one last look at myself when, in the mirror I see Grayson sit up, a sleepy smile on his face. Seeing me, he jumps up, gloriously naked, and comes over, wrapping me up from behind and nuzzling his face into the crook of my neck. “We should see if we can extend our stay here,” he says. “I could get used to this.”
“That’s a great idea. If we’re not blown to bits in a few hours, we can look into it.”
His arms tighten around me. “You’ve got this.”
“You sound awfully confident for someone who has seen me capture exactly zero psychopathic witches all week.”
He releases me and flashes me a grin in the mirror. “What are my options? If I’m wrong, I probably won’t live to realize it, so I might as well just have faith in you.”
I turn in his arms and reach up to trace my thumb over his perfect cheekbone. “I’m going to head over to the barn.”
He kisses the tip of my nose. “Okay. I’ll meet you there.”
I open the door to leave but pause in the doorway. “Grayson?”
He looks up from where he’s grabbing a pair of boxer briefs from his suitcase. “Yeah?”
“Try to remember: Headup.”
I love the way he looks when he laughs.
I really hope this isn’t the last time I get to see it.
I stop at the diner,but I can’t eat anything. Instead, I order a coffee and sit alone at a table off to one side, hoping that one of the diners around me will do something suspicious, like, say, cackle an evil laugh or pull out a book titled101 Evil Spells to Destroy the Lives of Pig People.
No such luck. I drain my coffee and stand up, leaving an extra big tip for Sheila.
“Good luck today, hon,” she calls as I walk out the door.
“Thanks.”
I’m going to need it.
I head to the practice barn because that’s where Petunia supposedly slept all night. He looks shiny and clean, probably because he actually slept in a queen-sized bed and hasn’t laid down in the muck after his shower.
Which is a shame because I was kind of looking forward to using the scrub brush on him. The rule book might frown on that still, but after what we did last night, that’s the least of our worries.
“Good. You’re here nice and early,” Wayne says, strolling up the aisle in one of his usual button-up shirts, his belt buckle newly shined and gleaming. “Are you ready to—oh, my good golly!”
Instinctively, I whirl around, looking for the threat. “What? What’s wrong?”
Wayne’s face drains of color. “What happened to this pig?”
