The Wrong Guy by Jenna Mills

Author:Jenna Mills [Mills, Jenna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-11-07T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

I hung there, frozen, a thousand thoughts racing in a thousand directions.

Maybe someone was trying to see if I was home, I considered, but quickly discarded the thought. My car was out front, in the driveway. It was obvious I was home.

The phone kept ringing.

Of course, just because my car was there, didn’t mean I was. I could be out for a run, maybe out back. Someone could have picked me up—

The chime of the doorbell gave way to loud pounding.

And if I wasn’t home, that gave someone time, time to do something else…

Robotically I stood and made my way toward the front of the house, pausing only by the knife block next to the stove. Curling my hand along the smooth steel handle, I made my way to the foyer, careful to avoid any windows.

“Lexi! Open the goddamn door!”

The rough-hewn voice almost sent me to my knees. I rushed forward, fumbling with the locks and turning the knob—

He pushed in through the blare of the security system, straight into the foyer and reached for me, taking my shoulders in his hands. “Are you okay? Why didn’t you answer?”

The way he looked at me, the dark storm in his eyes, stripped the breath from my lungs. He was scared, that was all I could think. L.T. was scared.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone,” I said against the hard rush inside of me. “I…”

His gaze shifted to my hand, my fingers still clenched around the butcher knife. “…you thought it might be him,” he realized.

“Pretty silly, huh?” Jerkily I pulled away, deactivating the relentless scream of the alarm. “Guess I’m just jumpy.”

“I should have told you I was coming back. I didn’t think about—” He broke off, swearing under his breath. “My bad.”

I’d never seen him look like that, uncomfortable almost, at a loss. “I’m the one who over-reacted,” I pointed out.

Except, maybe he had, too. He was a man of extreme, discipline and extraordinary control, yet when I failed to respond to the bell within the first minute, he’d begun pounding—

“What are you doing here anyway?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

He stepped toward the open door, where on the doormat behind him, a small white Java Joint bag and a drink carrier with two large paper cups waited.

“It’s Saturday,” he said. “Today I’m all yours.”

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