Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I’m just spooked by the news Sloane gave me. This doesn’t have anything to do with Jack. Nothing to do with Jack, I mentally chant to myself again. I’m just on edge about Tyler.
The kettle whistles, making me jump. I quickly shut it off, suddenly aware of every sound in the house. The wind howls outside, rattling the windows. Is it the storm, or do I hear footsteps on the porch?
Maybe it’s Tyler. Maybe it’s Jack.
Maybe I’m losing my damn mind.
A text notification pops up on my screen. It’s from Jack. Hope you’re staying warm. I’m worried about you in this storm. Mind if I stop by to check on you?
The thought of spending the evening with Jack, having sex as the snow falls, sounds amazing. Or it would have if I wasn’t such a hot mess of emotions right now. I blame Sloane and her news.
Trying to shake off my nerves, I text, I’m home safe, having tea. Thank you for the food and the shoveling. But don’t risk driving over here. I’d hate if something were to happen to you.
I don’t mind, he texts.
I’m fine. Truly. I have some work to catch up on anyway.
Okay, if you’re sure.
I set my phone down, my hands tensing. I try to focus on making my tea, but my mind keeps racing. The silence of the house feels oppressive now, broken only by the bellowing wind outside.
Suddenly, I hear a faint scratching sound coming from the front door. My heart leaps into my throat. I freeze, straining to listen. There it is again—a soft scraping, like someone trying to pick a lock.
Panic floods through me. Is it Tyler? Jack? Or am I imagining things?
I grab my phone, ready to call 911, when I hear a familiar meow. Relief washes over me as I realize it’s just my neighbor’s cat, Miss Patches, probably seeking shelter from the storm. I laugh shakily at my own paranoia.
As I open the door to let the cat in, a gust of icy wind hits me. Snow swirls into the kitchen, and I shiver, quickly ushering the cat inside and shutting the door.
I’m about to turn back to my tea when something catches my eye. There, in the fresh snow on the porch, are footprints. Large, masculine footprints, leading to the side of the house. Leading to the Christmas light-covered hedge that conceals my bedroom window.
My heart races as I stare at the footprints, my mind reeling. I slam the door shut and lock it, my hands shaking so badly I can barely manage the deadbolt. The cat meows plaintively, sensing my distress, but I barely notice as I stumble back into the kitchen.
I grab my phone, ready to call the police, but hesitate. What if I’m overreacting? What if it’s Mr. Haven checking on his salt job, or some other innocent explanation? I don’t want to look foolish.
But those footprints . . . they looked fresh. And they led directly to my bedroom window.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Maybe I should call Jack after all. He’d come over in a heartbeat, I know he would. But the seed of doubt planted earlier grows, spreading tendrils of suspicion through my mind. What if . . . ?
No. I shake my head, angry at myself for even considering it. Jack has been nothing but kind and supportive. He doesn’t deserve my suspicion just because of a few coincidences and some badly chosen words from others.
Still, I can’t bring myself to call him. Instead, I grab a kitchen knife and make my way through the house, checking every lock, every window. The wind howls outside, tree branches scraping against the siding like skeletal fingers. Every sound makes me jump, my nerves frayed to the breaking point.
As I approach my bedroom, knife clutched tightly in my sweaty hand, I hear a soft thud from outside. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. Slowly, I edge toward the window, my heart thrashing so hard it hurts.
I peer through the frosted glass, squinting against the snow swirling in the multi-colored glow of the holiday lights. At first, I see nothing but the hedge, its branches laden with snow. Then, a shadow moves. A dark figure straightens up from behind the bushes, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of a familiar profile.
My blood runs cold as recognition dawns. It can’t be. It just can’t be.
But as the figure turns, I know without a doubt who it is. The knife clatters to the floor as my world tilts on its axis.
“Jack,” I choke out.
As if hearing my voice, he looks directly at my window. Our eyes meet through the glass, and I gasp and stumble backward. Jack’s eyes widen in surprise, then narrow with determination. He takes a step toward the window, his hand reaching out as if to open it.