The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(16)

I lean back off the counter and shake out my arms for good measure. Surely the vibration will help with letting all the anxious juju make its way out through the ends of my fingers.

Quick and efficient, like a trained soldier, I set out to follow my own orders. A quick rinse of my face, a brush of my teeth with my own finger, a little potty break, a quick change into—swallow—Flynn’s large, loose T-shirt, and a run of my fingers through my hair, and I’m ready for bed.

I click off the lights first before opening the door a crack and peeking out into the hallway, my own discarded rental dress clutched to my chest. It’s dark and quiet, and after a brief surveillance to make sure that’s not going to change, I open the door the rest of the way and prance toward the bedroom on ninja-like feet. To be honest, I imagine I look a little bit more like the Grinch as he prepares to steal Christmas than anything else, but hell, it makes me feel better, so I go with it.

Safely in the bedroom, I shut the door behind myself with a soft click and step back to look at it, tossing my dress on a high-backed chair to the side. I never take my eyes off the door. It’s completely inanimate, and yet, it seems to say so many things.

I jump forward quickly and engage the lock brusquely before breaking into a jog for the bed. The sooner I’m in and tucked under those covers, the sooner I can fall asleep, which, ultimately, means I’ll be able to let all of this go for a short period of time and just…rest.

Recharge. Reset. Recalibrate.

I shuffle and wiggle and scoot until nothing but my chin sticks out from the thick white comforter, my two eyes blinking rapidly in the silent darkness.

There is no city out the window, no hustle and bustle of the freeway just beyond the fence behind my apartment building—only the great, expansive nothingness of the desert and beyond.

I roll to the side and tuck my head in the pillow, hoping to smother some of my unrelenting thoughts.

Married, Daisy. You’re married.

I shake my head to, I don’t know, hopefully cause some minor brain trauma so the little cerebral workers shut things down for the night, but every time I try to close my eyes, they just pop back open like they’re spring-loaded.

I do an alligator death roll, spinning and spinning until the sheets are so tangled around me, I don’t know that I’ll ever get free.

“Well, this is good,” I murmur softly to myself, wrestling my limbs until I finally get my arms free and flop them on top of the covers.

God. Now I’m hot. Like, fucking swampy, to be honest. Why, why, why didn’t I bring my glass of water to bed with me? Whyyy did I leave it in the bathroom?

“Ugh,” I huff, pulling the covers down and off me completely while my internal oven cranks up the temperature to 500. For the love of everything, my organs will never survive this roasting.

I sigh. Sit up. Stare at the door.

Surely Flynn’s gone to bed now, right? I could just sneak back into the bathroom, grab my glass, fill it up one or five times, and that’ll be that. A gulp of some H2O and back to bed.

The fact that you’re trying to avoid your husband on your wedding night is quite the turn of events…

On a sigh, I shove the covers down to the end of the bed and turn my body so that my feet dangle off the edge. I crane my neck and strain my ears to hear anything outside of the bedroom—any signs of life—but as hard as I try, I can’t hear anything at all.

Just go, you lunatic. The night can’t get any weirder than it already is.

Moving boldly, I jump down from the bed and take off on another Jim Carrey in a green suit style run for the door. I unlock it, open it, peek outside, and then creep my way to the bathroom swiftly. I shut the door, lock it behind me, and then flick on the lights only to find my glass of water is…gone.

Nooo. Jesus, where did it go? Don’t tell me this place is like the Beast’s castle, and candlesticks are doing some light housekeeping in the dark of night.

Shit. I’m going to have to go back to the kitchen. Whipping out my virtual UNO reverse card, I exit the bathroom with the same stealth and speed with which I entered and head down the hallway toward the land of concrete and black cupboards.

The lights are all out, and the motion sensors must have a timer or something, because I’m left to the safety of the darkness as I make it into the kitchen, grab a glass from the cabinet I watched him get it out of before, and fill up my glass at the sink.

I put it to my lips, take a hard swig, and then settle my frantic hips against the counter with a deep sigh.

“Can’t sleep?” a rough, thick voice says from the darkened breakfast nook at the side of the kitchen. The jump it produces from me rivals that of Earvin Johnson, the Magic man himself.

“Holy shit,” I snap, a hand to my chest as I gasp for breath. Frankly, it’s nothing short of a miracle that there’s not shattered drinking glass fucking everywhere. “You’re still up.”

Flynn doesn’t respond, only shifting slightly in his seat and changing the shape of his shadow on the wall.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb your…quiet time or whatever. I just had to have another drink. P-a-r-c-h-e-d, that’s me.”

This has to be the weirdest, most awkward wedding night that has ever occurred.

My eyes close of their own accord, embarrassed for all sorts of reasons. Though, mostly due to the fact that I’m stuck inside the body of a lunatic.