King of the South by Read Calia

Author:Read, Calia
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Independent
Published: 2020-02-18T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Rainey

That night, sleep doesn’t come easily. I toss and turn, dreaming about the one person who causes me to act as mad as a March hare. I think of our conversation today and the heated looks he gave me during the picnic.

With a groan of frustration, I sit up and punch my pillow, pretending it’s Livingston. If we didn’t kiss, perhaps none of the uncomfortable tension would exist between us.

It’s then I hear a loud noise at my window. Suddenly alert, I stare at the window and see a dark shadow. The lock wiggles. Frantically, I look around my room for something to use as a weapon. I only have my curling iron at my vanity table to use as a makeshift weapon.

Jumping out of bed, I snatch the iron, clutching it as though I’m getting ready to hit a baseball. My eyes never waver from the window. Hinges creak as the windows move upward. Someone clutches the window frame. Their body dips in. I take quiet, tentative steps toward them. Whoever is breaking in is just as quiet as I am but is dedicated to the task. They don’t see me sneaking up on them.

Too bad. That works in my favor.

My God has one of the bachelors lost their mind and is trying to get inside my room? That’s the only possible explanation. Never did I think this would happen. My grip tightens on the iron as my heart rate quickens.

The large frame is still hidden by the shadows, but there’s no mistaking it’s a male. I lift the iron, ready to take a swing, when the intruder speaks. “Rainey, put the weapon down.”

In an instant, I recognize the voice. Slowly, I lower my weapon and squint as though that will help me see better. With the window open, the streetlamps outside bring a weak glow into my room. “Livingston?” I hiss.

“Of course it’s me. Who else would it be?”

“I didn’t know.” I scramble to my nightstand and turn on my lamp. A dim glow illuminates the room and reveals Livingston standing there with the same clothes he wore during the picnic. He seems larger in my room. The planes and angles of his face and wide shoulders are more pronounced. His male vitality is impossible to ignore. “I don’t have guests waltzin’ into my room in the middle of the night.”

Livingston snorts. “It’s hardly the middle of the night.” I watch him pull out his pocket watch. “It’s a quarter till one.”

“That’s the middle of the night for me,” I reply.

“For me, it’s the beginnin’.” He grins and then looks me over. “Were you gonna shoot me again?”

I look at the curling iron and walk to my vanity. “Quite possibly.”

That is a fabrication on my part. I don’t have arrows laying around my room. My last one was left at Livingston’s. I hope it’s still embedded in the armoire, and he looks at it every single morning and thinks of me. I hope he’s reminded I will never conform to what the world expects of me.

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