Pen Pal(16)

Groggy, I lie in bed listening into the dark. It’s stormy again, and the wind is blowing. Rain peppers the roof. A tree branch scrapes against a windowpane somewhere downstairs.

No, that wasn’t a tree branch. It was a floor board creaking.

It sounds like someone’s creeping up the stairs.

I sit bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering. I listen hard, trying to hear over the crashing of my pulse, but the sound doesn’t come again.

Did I imagine it? Or is someone in the house?

I try not to panic. I try to be logical. The house is old and makes all kinds of odd noises, especially when there’s a storm. Things are blowing around in the yard…maybe the sound was a lawn chair toppling over. Or a draft sighing through the living room curtains. Or a total figment of my imagination, seeing how I’m still adjusting to sleeping alone.

All of those things make complete sense until the floorboard creaks again and I have to stifle a scream.

I leap from bed, run to the door, and lock it. Heart pounding, I grab the flashlight from under the bathroom sink. It’s big, heavy, and the only thing I can think of to use as a weapon. Then I crouch down on the side of the bed opposite the door and sit there, shaking and hyperventilating, clutching the flashlight like a baseball bat.

I don’t know how long I huddle like that before I decide I’m being silly.

If someone broke into the house, I’d have heard a window smash or a door being kicked in. I’d have heard more footsteps, not just a few groaning boards, because the stairs creak with every step. I’m just being paranoid.

That has to be it.

The alternative is too terrifying.

I stand, wincing when my thighs cramp. I go to the door, put my ear against it, and listen. I hear nothing more than the rain on the roof. I decide to put on some clothes and quickly change out of my nightgown into jeans and a shirt.

Then, with the flashlight in hand but not on, I carefully open the bedroom door and peer out.

The hallway is pitch black. It’s a moonless night, and the cloud cover is thick. I listen into the darkness for a moment, the tiptoe down the hall in my bare feet and look over the railing to the living room below.

It’s dark down there, too. Dark and silent. Nothing moves.

Then my skin starts to crawl because I have the creepiest feeling I’m being watched.

Get out of the house!

It’s not even a coherent thought. It’s more like a subliminal thing, as if the ancient part of my brain screamed a warning at me.

With my heart in my throat and my hands shaking, I make my way down the stairs as quickly and silently as I can. I grab the car keys off the console table in the foyer and run out of the house in a full-blown panic, not even bothering to bring my purse.

Ten minutes later, I’m pounding on Aidan’s door.

He opens up wearing nothing but a pair of faded jeans that hang low on his hips. His hair is mussed, his stomach is flat, his chest is covered in tattoos.

He’s fucking magnificent.

The horrible thought that he’s not alone flashes through my brain, right before I blurt, “I’m so sorry to disturb you. I’m going now.”

He grabs me by the arm and pulls me inside before I can run away.

Closing the door behind me, he demands, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

My teeth start to chatter. This is when I realize I’m soaking wet, because I ran out of the house into the rain without a coat on. Or shoes, for that matter.

Or underwear.

I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to hide my breasts under the thin T-shirt I’m wearing. “I t-thought s-someone broke into my h-house.”

His dark brows pull together. “So you came here?”

I’m a moron. I’m the stupidest person to ever walk the face of the earth. For the safety of the rest of humanity, I should be locked away in a government-operated facility for the rest of time.

He must see the distress on my face, because he says gently, “That wasn’t a reproach.”

I make a mental note that this hot roofer has a good vocabulary, but get distracted when he adds, “You’re wet.”

His gaze moves slowly down my body, taking in my soaked clothing and my bare feet. It travels back up again, getting snagged on my lips before finally settling on my eyes.

His voice husky, he says, “Let’s get you warm. Then you can tell me what happened.”

He leads me inside by the elbow, sits me down at his kitchen table, and disappears into another room. For a towel, I suppose, though he could be calling the cops to tell them to pick up the crazy lady who just showed up soaking wet on his doorstep in the middle of the night.

Shivering, I look around.

His place is small but tidy. The kitchen and living room are next to each other in an open-concept design. The space is visually separated by a set of open bookcases, with a sofa and chairs on the other side along with the TV and a coffee table. Down the hallway where he disappeared must be the bedrooms.

I’m surprised how clean and neat it is, considering a bachelor lives here. There aren’t even any dirty dishes in the sink.

He returns with a fluffy white towel in his hands and commands, “Stand up.”

Though I usually get grouchy when someone barks orders at me, I obey without protesting. He wraps the towel around my back and shoulders and starts to rub my arms with it.

Without looking at my face, he says, “Don’t be embarrassed.”