The Guardian Angel by Bridget Essex

Author:Bridget Essex [Essex, Bridget]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rose and Star Press
Published: 2015-05-13T03:00:00+00:00

Chapter 5: Declarations

I've never been more tired in my life.

People use that phrase often, but this time, I think it's true. I stare at my bedside clock as it beeps cheerfully—and very, very loudly—at me, informing me that it's six o'clock in the morning. On a Saturday. There's something blasphemous about being awake this early on a Saturday, the one day per week that I'm almost guaranteed to have off.

Most Sundays I have to work, but Saturday? That's the day I get to sleep in for as long as Sawyer will permit me—until, finally, she slips her cold, wet nose under the sheets and starts to lick my toes with the adept desperation of a dog who really, really needs to have her morning pee, and her mother's longing for a nice, long rest is really her least concern. That's the day that I get to relax, puttering around the house in my bathrobe and worrying about nothing more than what's for dinner. The one day I almost never leave the house, except to walk Sawyer and maybe stock up on ice cream.

But, even though it's Saturday, I stick my feet out from under the blankets now, plunking them heavily on the floor as I yawn, miserably stretching, trying to rub the sleep from my heavy-lidded eyes.

Sure, it's six o'clock in the morning on a Saturday, but Ginger made me promise—pinky promise, the most serious kind of promise that we make to one another—that I would drag myself from my indulgent slumber to meet her for the Red Sox home game today.

To Ginger, the Red Sox are a religion. And I made her a promise. I repeat that phrase to myself over and over—I promised, I promised—as I hit the alarm button on my clock and blink blearily at the offensive digital numbers glowing back at me.

Granted, waking up at six o'clock in the morning isn't normally a problem for me. When I'm assigned the early morning news, I've got to be air-ready by four a.m., bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—after guzzling down an unhealthy amount of coffee, of course.

So, the problem isn't, truthfully, the early hour—or even the fact that it's a sacred Saturday morning. The problem is that I scarcely slept at all last night. I tossed and turned so much that I became hopelessly tangled in the sheets, and my hair is sticking straight up, Bride of Frankenstein couture.

I couldn't sleep because I was thinking about Gabrielle.

And the kiss. Well, the kisses.

I sigh and try to run my fingers through my hair, but it's too knotted, so I just close my eyes and sigh again. My cheeks warm as I think about last night, being in the swan boat with Gabrielle, kissing Gabrielle... I remember her hands on my hips as I slid my own hands around her curves, my fingers moving slowly to the small of her back, daring to inch just a tiny bit beneath her jacket and shirt to caress the soft, hot skin there. How

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