Three Little Words
Page 13
Silence.
She let out her breath and padded toward the hallway leading to her bedroom. She stopped off at the bathroom—brushed her teeth, traded her contacts for glasses, and debated whether to dig around in her suitcase for pajamas. She was already wearing comfy cotton shorts and a T-shirt. Close enough.
Within minutes, she stood in front of her bedroom door and turned the knob—slowly. Pushed the door open—slowly. No creaking. My room. My bed . . . her luxurious, full-of-pillows, antique king-sized canopy bed. The one she’d have in her townhouse now if it wasn’t way too big.
She abandoned her suitcase just inside the bedroom door and walked to the bed. She couldn’t see much—only shadows in the dark.
Did it smell different in here? Sort of . . . musky? Masculine?
Huh. Maybe Dad was trying out a new air freshener.
She slipped off her glasses and laid them on the bedside tables. Inched back the covers, lowered onto the mattress, pulled up her feet . . . stretched, rolled . . .
Hit a wall. A warm . . . muscled . . . moving wall.
The sound of springs bouncing joined her breathless gasp as the man—WHAT?—flew from the bed. The sudden movement and her own panic ended with her snarled in sheets and then thudding to the floor, too shocked to even squeal.
“What . . . in . . . the world?”
Yes, definitely a man’s voice. And not Dad’s. Or Seth’s.
She kicked free of the sheet that’d come off the bed with her, shoved her hair from her face, and looked up. A man’s form stood frozen on the other side of the room.
He was in my bed. He was in my bed and he’s not wearing a shirt. He was in my bed and he’s not wearing a shirt and now he’s coming over here . . .
She scrambled backward and bumped into the bedside table, knocking her glasses to the floor. She grabbed and fit them in place, then jumped to her feet.
“Are you hurt? Did you hit your head or anything when you fell?” He rounded the bed. “Are you going to scream?”
Like she could play twenty questions when her heart was Fred Astaire–ing it up inside her chest.
Fight or flight? Fight or flight?
She slapped at the light switch on the wall, but instead the light turning on, the ceiling fan hummed to life. The man in the bed must’ve heard her huff of frustration, though, because he reached for the lamp on the bedside stand, dim light pushing against the dark.
And then he was standing in front of her, all six foot-who-knew of him. Gym shorts. Sandy hair tousling under the fan’s whirring. Eyes so ridiculously blue-green the Pacific might as well give up. The faintest scar carved into the corner of one eyebrow, however, probably expelled him from flawless territory.
“Uh . . . hi?” Sleepy confusion huddled in his voice.
Her heartbeat finally began to steady. “Who are you and what do you want?”
The man’s sheepish discomfort shifted into an almost-smirk—great, add dimples to the list—and he brushed a pillow feather from his shorts. “Who am I and what do I want? Did I wake up in a poorly scripted detective show?” He raked his fingers through his hair.
“You’re not my dad. Or my sister. Or my cousin—”
“Astute.”
She folded her arms now. “So who are you?”
“Colton Greene.” He said it as if it explained everything.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Actually, now that she thought about it, maybe it did sound at least a little familiar. Did he live in Maple Valley? Was he some friend of Seth’s? A visitor she’d heard Dad talk about?
He tipped his head to one side. Shrugged. “Well, anyway, I’m a guest. Not an intruder or anything.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Uh . . . because I was asleep.” He drawled his words. “I’m not wearing a shirt. What kind of thief comes in half-dressed and goes to bed instead of, like, making off with the china and silver?”
“I don’t know. Could by your MO.”
He mimicked her folded-arms pose. “All right, you nailed it. They call me the Narcoleptic Burglar.” He did droll amazingly well. “Now whatcha gonna do?”
Was sinking into the floor an option? “Listen, you . . .” You what? Come on, she was a writer. Shouldn’t the whole sentence-forming thing work better than this?
He cocked one eyebrow, waiting, his amusement so obvious it was practically a third person in this little exchange.
But that’s when her bedroom door flung open and Raegan spilled into the room. And Logan.
Wait . . . Logan?
“Kate!” Raegan flung herself at Kate for a hug. “We heard a thump and voices and . . .” She stepped back, eyes widening. “You met Colton.”
Colton stepped forward. “Oh, she skipped the meeting part and went straight to getting into bed with—”
He clamped his lips together when Kate threw him a glare. Which she promptly turned on Raegan when her sister let out a snort. And then on to Logan. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in LA?”
Logan pulled her into a hug. “Nice to see you, too, sis.”
“You could’ve told me you were coming home.” Despite the annoyance in her voice, she hugged her brother.
“Thought it’d be fun to surprise you when you came home for the festival.” Logan glanced at Colton. “Sorry we gave Colton your bedroom, but this is the only one in the house with a king-sized bed. Guess you got a bigger surprise than planned.”
Bigger indeed. The man was the size of a lumberjack. Or a linebacker. Or . . .
Her mind hitched on that last thought. Linebacker. Football.
Ohhhh. Colton. Greene.
It wasn’t Dad she’d heard say the name. It was Breydan. All those times when he talked to her about football. Showed her the bobbleheads of his favorite players that lined the windowsill in his bedroom.
Somewhere in the recesses of her obviously not so quick-on-the-draw brain she’d known Logan had a football player friend. But apparently putting two and two together took extra skills in the muddle of a post-seven-hour drive.
Colton Greene. The NFL quarterback. The one in the headlines.
In her bedroom.
“So now do you believe I’m not a burglar?” He lifted one corner of his mouth in a half smile she might’ve called half-cute if she wasn’t wholly mortified.
Raegan laced her arm through Kate’s. “C’mon, let’s go wake up Seth and have a late-night snack. We’ve got a tub of cookie dough in the freezer.”
They were nearly out the door when Colton’s voice sounded behind them. “Welcome home, Kate.”
Welcome home, indeed.
We hope you’ve enjoyed this special sample of From the Start by Melissa Tagg. For more information on this book, please visit www.bethanyhouse.com or your favorite bookstore.
Melissa Tagg is a former reporter and total Iowa girl. In addition to her homeless ministry day job, she is also the marketing/events coordinator for My Book Therapy, a craft-and-coaching community for writers. When she’s not writing, she can be found hanging out with the coolest family ever, watching old movies, and daydreaming about her next book. She’s passionate about humor, grace, and happy endings. Melissa blogs regularly and loves connecting with readers at www.melissatagg.com.
Books by Melissa Tagg
Made to Last
Here to Stay
WALKER FAMILY
Three Little Words*
From the Start
*e-novella
melissatagg.com
Resources: bethanyhouse.com/AnOpenBook
Website: www.bethanyhouse.com
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