So Wrong It's Right

by Julie Johnson

  “Who are y—” I start to ask, but the question dies in my throat as the stranger abruptly straightens to full height and pulls his gun from its holster.

  “I’m going to sweep the house.”

  My mouth parts. “But—”

  “Keep quiet. And don’t move.”

  Though he speaks no louder than a whisper, there’s no denying it’s an order. Clearly, this is a man unaccustomed to being disobeyed. My eyes strain to make out his shape in the darkness as he walks out of the room, his footsteps inaudible. For such a large man, he moves with a catlike grace that speaks to years of training. Everything from his posture to the way he holds his gun — arms extended, barrel pointed to the floor — practically screams law enforcement.

  Who the hell is this guy?!

  An undercover cop?

  A rogue P.I.?

  In either case, I suppose I should feel marginally better that the cavalry has arrived to rescue me. In fact, I should be thrilled to discover I won’t die duct taped to a chair in my dining room, only to be found after days or weeks or months by a concerned letter carrier who notices the Hunts haven’t emptied their mailbox in quite some time…

  Unfortunately, it’s hard to be thrilled about much of anything when every square inch of your body aches, you’ve got a killer headache from a full day of dehydration, and there’s an excruciating pressure in your bladder after nearly twelve hours of holding it.

  Alone in the dark parlor, my eyes dart to the bathroom door located off the hallway to my left. I consider making a break for it — I’m not exaggerating when I tell you I have to pee worse than the time I got trapped in a hotel elevator for five straight hours and nearly used my purse as a urinal in front of several unwitting strangers — but before I have a chance, Mr. Macho strides back into the room, holstering his gun.

  “All clear.”

  My brows lift. “Obviously. They left as soon as they tied me up. If you’d given me a chance, I could’ve told you that. Would’ve saved you a walking tour of my house.”

  He stares at me blankly, saying nothing.

  I prattle on. “I mean, not that I’m an expert or anything… but I’m pretty positive bad guys generally don’t hang around after breaking and entering.” My head tilts. “Breaking and entering followed by abducting and duct taping, if we’re being specific.”

  I expect him to laugh. Chuckle, even.

  He doesn’t.

  “Jeeze, tough crowd,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

  He sighs, as though I’m profoundly annoying. “Ms. Hunt, I need you to tell me exactly what happened that led to your…” He pauses. “Abducting and duct taping, as it were.”

  “Well, buster, first I need you to tell me exactly what led to you climbing through my window and rescuing me.” I cross my arms over my chest and level him with a look. I wish I could make out his features clearly, but it’s still so dark in here. “I mean… Who the heck are you? How did you know I was here? Furthermore, how do I know you aren’t some psycho working with Righty and Lefty? Huh?”

  “Righty and Lefty?” he mutters quizzically.

  “Yep. I’d give you a pithy nickname too, but frankly I’ve run out of directions. Oh! I suppose you could be North or South… though I’m pretty sure the Kardashian clan has laid claimed to all of those. East? West? I can never remember. Pop culture isn’t my forte.”

  His dark brows furrow. “Did you hit your head?”

  “No!” Heat rushes to my cheeks as I realize I may, in fact, be rambling. I blame it on the sleep deprivation. That, or an impending anxiety attack. It’s hard to say for certain. “Look, bucko, all I know is, one minute I’m walking up my front steps with a bag of groceries, the next I’m grabbed by two giant thugs and dragged into my own house kicking and screaming. Don’t believe me? Check the front walk. I’m sure it’s a shrine to my Farmers Market haul still scattered across the front stoop.” I shake my head. “Honestly, what a waste of perfectly good burrata cheese.”

  “Ms. Hunt—”

  “And do you know how long it takes to find six perfectly ripe avocados? Those babies have an optimal shelf life of about thirty-six seconds before they turn to rotten brown mush!” I scowl. “There goes the neighborhood! Along with my plans for avocado toast.”

  “Ms. Hunt—”

  “If you ask me, they could’ve at least picked up my groceries after kidnapping me. Set them on the counter or something, like gentlemen. But nooo. Apparently that would be far too much to ask.”

  “How… inconsiderate,” he says haltingly, looking at me like I’m nuts.

  Which, let’s face it, I totally am.

  “Tell me about it!” I’m breathing hard now, my tone rising with anger and something else. It might be shock, but I decide not to examine it too closely. “I mean, kidnapping is one thing. But avocado abandonment? That’s a capital offense!”

  “Hunt—”

  “You can call me Shelby. You know, since you’ve just saved my life and all.” I throw my hands up in the air. “I guess it’s true what they say — there’s no honor amongst thieves. Especially when it comes to produce. Chivalry really is dead… as are the hydrangeas I bought at an obscene markup. Because the Farmers Market is cute and all, but boy oh boy do they price gouge like nobody’s busin—”

  “Hey.”

  I blink. Hard.

  The nonsensical words I’ve been spouting evaporate on my tongue because, quite suddenly, he’s there. On the floor crouching before me. His big hands cup my face, so gently it steals my breath, and his eyes lock on mine. They’re so dark, I’m instantly transfixed — sucked into his orbit like an untethered planet falling into a black hole. I don’t even try to look away; his gravity is too strong to escape.

  “You’re all right,” he says lowly, his strong fingers flexing against my cheeks. “You’re safe, now. Just breathe.”

  My mouth opens, but there are no words. Just a slow-dawning horror filling the vacuum left behind as my panic ebbs away.

  I was kidnapped, I realize, feeling strangely numb. Manhandled and mistreated. In my own home. In the place where I sleep. In the place I’m supposed to be safest.

  I feel tears pricking at my eyes. It takes all my remaining strength not to let them fall.

  “Breathe,” he orders again.

  And I do.

  In and out.

  Nose and mouth.

  Timing my breaths with his.

  I’m not sure how long we stay like that — his hands on my cheeks, our eyes locked together. Long enough for my heart to stop thundering inside my chest. Long enough for my semi-hysterical rambles to fade and reason to return. Long enough for my cheeks to heat with embarrassment over the scene I’ve just caused in front of this stranger who’s done nothing but rescue my crazy ass. And, as a thank you, I let him witness a full-fledged panic attack. About produce, of all things.

  Way to go, Shelby.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, mortified.

  He just stares at me.

  “I…” I avert my eyes from his and pull back, out of his hold. “I…”

  “It’s fine,” he says gruffly, as though he’s not quite sure how to be gentle but is trying his damndest. He rises to his feet and shoves his hands in his pockets, blowing out a sharp breath. “Why don’t you just start at the beginning.”

  My eyes flicker up to his for a brief second. “I…”

  In the dark, his eyebrows are two black slashes. They lift in question, waiting for me to speak.

  “I… I have to pee!” I blurt.

  Before he can say another word, I hop to my feet and race for the bathroom. Slamming the door closed behind me, I collapse back against it, breathing hard. After that humiliating experience, I think I’d prefer slowly starving to death in my dining room chair to ever again facing a man who’s witnessed the true depths of my insanity.

  Congrats, looney tunes. Of all the embarrassing shit you’ve ever done… this truly takes the cake.

  I drop my face into my
hands and groan softly.

  The true irony of it all?

  I don’t even have to pee, anymore.

  Chapter Four

  GLUTEUS MAXIMUS

  It takes me a while to muster the courage to leave the bathroom. But after fifteen minutes — during which I’ve peed, washed my face, combed my hair, brushed my teeth, and seriously contemplated the use of thirty-minute whitening strips because what can I say, stalling is my varsity sport — I officially run out of bathroom-related activities. I also realize no matter how long I stall, Mr. Macho is still going to be out there, all brooding and bossy, waiting for me.

  Sigh.

  When I finally open the door and step into the hallway, I find he’s turned on the lights. Blinking at the sudden brightness, I walk slowly back into the parlor, rubbing self-consciously at my chafed wrists. He’s standing with his back to me, peering out the front window at the street from behind a curtain. He speaks without turning around.

  “We should get going.”

  I flinch to a stop. “What?”

  He turns to look at me, arms crossed over his chest, messy black hair falling into his eyes. My gaze drags from the badass motorcycle boots on his feet up two muscular legs encased in fitted black jeans, past the gun holstered at his belt, over a seriously sculpted chest, and, finally, to his face. My mouth falls open when I see it in the full light for the first time.

  “You!” I say, recognition blazing through me. “I know you!”

  He doesn’t move a muscle, but his eyes cut to mine. I see now that they aren’t black or brown, like I originally thought, but the darkest shade of indigo. Like a spill of navy ink, piercing and intense as they pin me to the spot.

  “You were at Phoebe and Nate’s wedding last month!” I exclaim.

  My mind spins in circles as I try to reconcile the fact that this stranger is not such a stranger after all.

  Dear lord.

  I don’t know whether to be relieved, confused, or even more embarrassed than I was before to learn that the man who’s come to my rescue isn’t some altruistic law enforcement official or chivalrous crime-fighting good samaritan intent on keeping Somerville’s streets safe…

  Nope.

  He’s a man I’ve met before.

  A man whose path I crossed mere weeks ago.

  He was the freaking mystery guest I spotted at the wedding! The one whose dark blue eyes I kept trying to catch during slow songs, when all my friends were paired off with their men. The one I couldn’t seem to tear my stare away from, even after he almost caught me looking.

  Twice.

  (Thankfully, he seemed totally oblivious to my attention.)

  True, I was drunk on champagne at the time… but I distinctly remember him standing by the bar, sipping a low-ball glass of whiskey and chatting with several of the badasses who work for Nate at Knox Investigations. No amount of alcohol would be enough to forget those blue-black eyes.

  The same eyes that are now fixed on me, unblinking and rife with intensity.

  “You’re Nate’s friend,” I say, still staring at him. I have a feeling my cheeks are the color of the doomed tomatoes I bought yesterday morning. “The cop.”

  He doesn’t confirm or deny my words. He just stares at me, jaw working with tension, muscles straining against his black v-neck. It’s a bit unnerving.

  “Well?” I ask, brows raised. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Whether or not we occasionally run in the same social circles doesn’t concern me,” he mutters, shoving a hand through his messy black hair. “We’re leaving.”

  “We?”

  “You. Me. We.” His brows lift. “If I talk any slower, we’ll be going backwards here, Hunt.”

  “If you think I’m going anywhere with you, you are sorely mistaken, mister!”

  He blinks at me.

  “I mean… Officer. Constable. Deputy. All due respect intended. Obviously.” I bite my lip in the vain hope it might shut me up.

  He’s doing that empty-eyed stare again — the one that simultaneously says so much and so little.

  “Please don’t cuff me. Uncontrollable rambling is a plague, not a punishable offense,” I joke lamely, trying to lighten the mood.

  I think I see a flash of humor in his eyes, but they cut away from me too fast to be certain — straight out the window, toward the street. His posture is still tense, as though he’s on high alert for the arrival of an impending threat.

  “Look…” I haul in a breath and strive for civility. “I don’t know you. Generally, I’d be inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt despite that fact, seeing as you’re a friend of a friend… and you just so happen to have saved my ass from certain death by duct tape. But you’re not giving me a lot to go on, here. You do realize that, right?”

  His only response is the slight shift of his shoulder muscles beneath the fabric of his t-shirt.

  I swallow a frustrated scream. “All I’m saying is, a little insight would be nice. You know, seeing as my whole world has flipped upside down in the past twelve hours and I’m not even remotely sure how or why you’re connected to all of this. But clearly you know more than you’re saying — which, for the record, is nothing — so it would be really freaking great if you could fill me in. If you do, I promise I’ll stop rambling and leave you alone. Possibly forever. Because I’ll likely be dead at the hands of two enormous thugs when they inevitably track me down again.”

  He glances back at me. “If I thought you’d actually shut up for more than thirty seconds, I might just take you up on that trade, Hunt.”

  “You’re an ass.”

  “Duly noted.” His tone is flat. “You ready to leave?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “As a heart attack, Hunt.”

  “And where do you plan on taking me, officer?” I snort. “Let me guess! Down to the station!?”

  His eyes narrow a shade. “You have five minutes. After that, I’m putting you over my shoulder and carrying you out of here, whether or not your shit is in a bag and your shoes are on your feet.”

  I blink at him, mouth agape. “Am I on some sort of hidden camera reality show? Did Phoebe and Nate put you up to this? Or Gemma and Chase? Is it some elaborate prank? An early thirtieth birthday gift, perhaps?” My nose scrunches up at the thought. “Though, frankly, why anyone would want to celebrate turning thirty is beyond my abilities to fathom…”

  He doesn’t dignify my questions with a response.

  “Please tell me this is a prank,” I plead weakly.

  “I could, but I don’t make a habit of saying shit that isn’t true.” His brows pull in. “Speaking of shit I’ve said — could’ve sworn I told you to start packing.”

  My spine stiffens. “Do you even hear yourself?! Are you seriously ordering me to leave my house with you? Without giving me even the slightest explanation as to why?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “No, you’ll explain now,” I counter hotly. “I want to know why you’re here, how you knew to come looking for me, and where the hell you plan on taking me in the middle of the night that requires me to break out my freaking duffle bag!”

  “Look, Hunt, the men you encountered earlier will be back. We can’t be here when that happens.” His eyes flicker to the window again before returning to settle on my face. There’s no warmth in his expression. “So walk your stubborn little ass upstairs and pack your damn bag. Now.”

  I tense up at his bossy tone. Aren’t saviors supposed to be gentleman? He’s certainly not one. It figures, my knight-in-shining-armor is more of a jackass-in-faded-denim.

  Story of my freaking life.

  My arms cross over my chest but, otherwise, I don’t move a muscle. Call it pig-headedness, call it stubbornness… I have a tendency to dig my heels in when I’m feeling backed into a corner. It’s not my best trait but, like I’ve just said, I’m nearly thirty so…

  Too late to change my dastardly ways, now.

  “You would
n’t actually dare carry me out of my own house against my will.” I scoff as though the very idea is ludicrous.

  His eyes gleam with a scary intensity. “Oh, Hunt. Try me.”

  I go pale.

  He takes a small step toward me and I fight the urge to shuffle backward. “By my count, you’ve got just under four minutes left. Waste any more fighting, you’re gonna end up with nothing but the clothes on your back. Don’t cry to me when you spend the next few days in a hot pink sports bra and bare feet.”

  I glower at him to hide the fact that I’m getting a little nervous. Because this doesn’t feel like a prank. And he doesn’t really seem like he’s joking. Not at all. In fact… he seems pretty damn serious about this whole pack a bag, we’re leaving crap.

  But he can’t possibly be serious.

  Right?

  “Three minutes, Hunt.”

  “My name is Shelby,” I snap automatically. “Don’t act like you don’t know exactly who I am.”

  A muscle jumps in his cheek. He’s pissed.

  Good. That makes two of us.

  I take a step toward him, eyes narrowing. “And I know you, even if you won’t admit it. You’re Colin Something-or-Other.”

  “Conor.”

  “Right, that’s what I said. Conor Something-or-Other.”

  His jaw clenches tightly. “Gallagher.”

  “Conor Gallagher.” I smirk. “Could you be more Irish?”

  “Christ. We don’t have time for this.” Scowling, he pushes away from the window, grabs me by the hand, and starts dragging me along behind him as he walks from the room.

  Oh…

  Did I say walks?

  More like strides.

  Those long-ass legs of his cross the room so fast, I’m practically running to keep up as we pass through the foyer and head up the grand staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

  “Hey!” I hiss, tugging at my hand. It’s no use — his grip is unshakeable. “Let me go, asshole!”