So, I sort pieces and talk to my sister.
“So why’d you send a package today?”
“Do I need a reason to send a gift to my big brother?”
“You always have in the past.”
“Maybe I just think you need a hobby.”
I pause sorting the puzzle pieces to frown at my phone. “I don’t have time for a hobby.”
“Right, because you’re all work, work, work. Did you learn nothing from The Shining?”
“What—”
But before I can ask her what the life lesson from The Shining is supposed to be, she cuts me off. “Holy shit, who’s that?”
“Who’s who?” I ask. I don’t even look up from the puzzle. Tavey is always doing ten things at once and for all I know she’s watching surveillance from somewhere on the other side of the globe while she talks to me.
“Who’s that at your door?”
Apparently, she’s still got my hacked Ring feed up on her end. “I don’t know. Let me pull up—”
“No! There’s no time to pull up the app. Go get a shirt on!”
Her voice is so high I can’t tell if it’s excitement or horror that has her barking out orders.
I stand, but then she adds, “No! Wait. Skip the shirt. You’re ripped. And there’s no time.”
Tavey is six years younger than me, but bossy as fuck.
“Jesus, calm down, Tavey,” I mutter as I head to the door.
I have no idea who or what could be on the other side of the door. I haven’t ordered any groceries or takeout. I’m not expecting any deliveries. Frankly, this feels like part of Tavey’s elaborate puzzle.
I’ve got the phone in my hand and the towel tossed around my neck when I throw open the door—expecting . . . I don’t even know what. A flock of geese. The cast of Cats. With Tavey, you never know.
When I open the door, it’s not a flock of geese or the cast of Cats.
It’s Holly.
Fuck.
If I’d thought she looked pretty that day in her class, today she looks fucking stunning.
Or maybe stunningly fuckable.
She’s in a dress that’s short enough to expose her legs, which are tan and muscular and gorgeous. It’s got those thin straps that leave her shoulders and arms bare and immediately make me wonder if she’s got a bra on. If she does, how the hell is it keeping anything up without straps?
Her hair is up in a ponytail on top of her head that somehow makes her neck look even longer.
In class she looked like a sexy librarian—elegant, but aloof—and it nearly killed me.
Now? With all this exposed skin? Looking relaxed and touchable? And on my doorstep?
I am absolutely screwed.
I’m a dead man.
