Pen Pal

I found the letter in the mailbox this time. No mystery appearances on the kitchen table, but still a big mystery about why it came in the first place.

Because I don’t know this guy.

Mr. Mysterious ignored my threat to turn his letters over to the detective, so he either thinks I’m bluffing or he doesn’t care.

I stand in the kitchen under the flickering light and read the letter again. The verse means nothing to me. Not that it should, because it originated from the mind of a lunatic.

I wish I could tell Michael about this. What a laugh we’d have. Right before he called the police.

I know that’s what I should do, but I’m absolutely exhausted. Maybe in the morning I’ll have the strength to pick up the phone and tell a nice police dispatcher that I have a crazy pen pal and could they please go over to the prison and tell him to stop writing me letters, but for now, all I want to do is sleep.

Sleep and forget about Aidan Leighrite and his sorcery.

I’ve still got adrenaline coursing through my veins from that chance meeting. The way he looked at me. The things he said.

“My plan is to get you naked and find out how you sound when you come.”

To my eternal disbelief, I actually considered his offer for a moment.

It was shock. It had to be. In my normal state of mind, I’d have smacked that guy right across the face, barged out of the bar, and filed a complaint about him with the Better Business Bureau. Who talks to a customer like that?

A former customer, but still.

Actually, did I ever technically hire him? We negotiated pricing, but I didn’t sign any kind of contract. It didn’t get that far. I threw him out of my house first.

Oh God, who cares? This is all too much for me.

I make sure all the doors are locked and the drapes are drawn. Then I go upstairs, put the letter with the others in my underwear drawer, and go to bed.

I fall asleep within minutes, but in the middle of the night, something wakes me.

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 floorboard 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 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, then 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 th-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.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the wet idiot standing in a stranger’s kitchen at one o’clock in the morning.”

“I’m not a stranger, remember? And you’re not an idiot.”

He seems irritated that I called myself that. Or maybe his irritation has to do with my unexpected arrival, which would make a lot more sense. The poor man has to go to work in the morning, and now he’s got a soaking psychopath to deal with.

He pulls the towel up over my head and starts blotting the rain from my hair.

My face flaming, I say miserably, “I think I might be dying of humiliation.”

“You’re not dying of anything. Be quiet and let me do this.”

I close my eyes and stand there wondering how a person would know if they lost their mind. But I force myself to stop thinking about it because the signs of insanity probably include imagining the rain is a burglar and fleeing for help to the home of the roofer you fired and turned down for sex.

In a conversational tone, Aidan says, “We’re gonna have a discussion later about why you chose me to come to when you were scared, but in the meantime, walk me through what happened.”

I’m too chicken to look at him while I talk, so I keep my eyes shut and tell him everything. When I’m done, he says, “You don’t have a security alarm?”

“No.”

“We’ll fix that tomorrow.”

I finally get the courage to look at him. His expression is a nice combination of amusement and concern. Those dark eyes of his are warm, but his brows are still drawn down.

Resisting the urge to reach up and pet his beard, I say, “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. And you’re still shivering.”

“I can’t help it. I’m freezing.”

He stops rubbing my head with the towel. “I’m gonna say something now. Don’t freak out.”

“You should’ve just said it. Now I have to freak out.”

“You need to change into dry clothes.”

I frown at him. “Why would that freak me out?”

“Because the dry clothes you’re gonna change into are mine.”

We stand a foot apart, me shivering with cold, him smoldering with heat, until I say, “I doubt you have anything that would fit me.”

He smiles. “Look at you, not freaking out at all.”

“Oh, I am. But I’ve done enough weird things for one night, so I’m keeping it on the inside.”

“Come with me.”

He leads me by the hand out of the kitchen and down the hallway into his bedroom. While he goes into his closet and turns on the light, I stare at his bed, which consists of one pillow and a blanket on top of a mattress laid out right on the floor. The only other things in the room are a simple wood dresser on one wall and a bookcase stuffed with books on the other.

“Yeah, I know. Super deluxe. Here.”

He’s back, holding out a black sweatshirt so large, I could wear it to dinner with a belt and heels and be well dressed.

I take it from him and clutch it to my chest like a security blanket. The towel is still draped around my head and shoulders. I’m still shaking with cold.

I feel utterly ridiculous.

“Aidan?”

“Yes, Kayla?”

“I’m really sorry about this. I promise I’m not a giant basket case. I’m just a little one.”

Looking very serious, he strokes a strand of damp hair off my cheek. He murmurs, “You’re not anything but beautiful.” After a pause, he adds, “You don’t have to freak out about that, either. I don’t try to seduce traumatized women who run in from the rain.”

“Okay. Thanks for that. Um…do you possibly have a pair of sweatpants I could wear with this?”

“You’d be swimming in them.”

“I know, but…”

“But what?”

I take a deep breath and say it. “I’ll be extremely self-conscious if my coochie is hanging out.”

He blinks in confusion.

“I don’t have any underwear on.”

“Oh. Oh.”

“Yes. So.”

“Wait. You came over here with no underwear on?”

“I promise it wasn’t premeditated.”

When he lifts a brow, I sigh. “I got dressed in a panic. I didn’t have time for panties.”

“Or a bra, either,” he says, his voice lower.

I wince. “You noticed.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Of course I noticed.” He pauses. “I also noticed that your cheeks get really red when you’re embarrassed.”

I say drily, “Thanks for the info. Are you giving me sweats or not?”

“I don’t own a pair of sweatpants.”

“Oh.”

“I can put your jeans in the dryer, though.” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Or we can just stand here and stare at each other. I’m good with that, too.”

“Why?”

After a beat, he says quietly, “I like looking at you.”

There’s a funny sensation inside my chest. Like a tightening, but also a loosening at the same time. I’m pretty sure it means I’m about to do something I’ll regret.

I shrug my shoulders and let the towel drop to the floor. Then I pull my wet shirt over my head and stand naked from the waist up in front of Aidan.

His gaze drops to my chest. His lips part. His pupils dilate. He remains perfectly still as he gazes at my bare breasts with burning eyes.

I whisper, “I want you to do more than look.”

In a gruff voice, he replies, “Whatever you say, boss,” and grabs me.