Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75478 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75478 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
We needed her as comfortable as possible if we were going to get information out of her.
“Bonnie?” I called through the door. “Can I come back in?”
There was a short pause, then a whispered, “Okay.”
Pushing the door open, I found she’d stripped my bed of its comforter and was currently using it to try to disappear into its depths on the same chair I’d left her in.
This might require more than just a hot beverage…
CHAPTER FOUR
Bonnie
As soon as I was alone, I snatched the blanket off the bed, brought it with me back to the chair, and wrapped it around myself.
It was partly that I was freezing after all that stress sweat dried on my skin. And partly because I just wanted to cocoon myself up.
Half of life’s problems, I was convinced, could be fixed by curling up in a big, fluffy blanket and ignoring the world.
Of course, this wasn’t a stranger knocking at my door or bad news on the TV.
This was life or death.
Namely, almost, my own death.
And I mean, fine. I lived a very small life. But it was mine. I wasn’t done with it yet. I mean, I’d added twelve books to my TBR just this month alone.
The warmth of the blanket chased away the chill, and I was almost comfortable when I heard his voice on the other side of the door.
His voice.
The voice of the man who’d dismantled the bomb. Who’d held me and stroked my back afterward as I fell apart, who’d talked me through my panic attack.
The man to whom I was there to deliver the ‘message to.’ Except there was no actual message.
Just the bomb strapped to my chest.
I guess, in a sick sort of way, that was message enough.
I honestly hadn’t given a single second of thought to the man I was meant to deliver this message to. I was too busy trying not to pass out because I was relatively sure that falling down when you had something explosive strapped to your body was probably a recipe for disaster.
It wasn’t until the vest was off that I could finally give in to the panic that had been building in my system since the moment I woke up in that basement.
But, yeah, Sully.
He was, objectively, hot.
Tall, fit, with great posture, medium brown hair that he had a bit long, a sharp jaw, bright blue eyes, and little smile lines that said he likely did so openly and often.
I even found myself liking his loud, bright pink Hawaiian shirt with little sunglass-clad cacti giving the finger printed all over it oddly charming. And the silly blobfish slippers had to be given a nod as well.
What can I say? I’d always admired people who wore whatever the hell they wanted, not caring what others might have to say about it. It was especially appealing, in my humble opinion, when men did it, since male clothing was all kind of bland and generic most of the time.
Even his bedroom seemed to be an extension of his personality. I mean, he had the wall behind his TV and dresser decorated with an ‘80s inspired wallpaper mural.
Speaking of the ‘80s, he had a shelf all along the entire room, just above head height that seemed to feature a ton of movies from the decade, alongside every single rom-com ever filmed.
As for the bed, when I’d pulled off the somewhat tame black and green checked bedspread, the sheets underneath had to be custom and featured what seemed to be a ton of quotes from various romantic comedies.
And from my cocoon, I could see inside his open closet door. Inside seemed to be about two dozen more Hawaiian shirts.
By the time I finished inspecting his room, my anxiety felt back to a tolerable four instead of off-the-charts.
I knew from my many hours of research for coping mechanisms to ease my anxiety that the act of observing, in and of itself, could soothe you when your anxiety is spiking.
And there was a lot to observe in this strange space.
Aside from the visuals of Sully’s room, there were the low murmurs of male voices from the other room. Where they were, no doubt, talking about the whole incident.
There was even something to smell, since Sully’s room seemed to smell, inexplicably, like peaches and vanilla. The blanket I was wrapped in smelled strongly of it, making me pretty sure that the man himself smelled like peaches and vanilla.
I’d been too busy sniffling when he’d been holding me before to actually be able to smell anything.
When he came back, though, he brought another wave of it in with him. Along with the bold scent of coffee and the richness of what had to be hot chocolate. The third mug, I assumed, had to be tea.
“Hey, honey,” he said, his head tipped to the side as he looked at me in my blanket cocoon. “How you holding up?” he asked, kicking the door mostly closed, then moving inside to set the tray on the nightstand next to me as he dropped down onto the bed.