However, I do not live a fantasy, romance-novel-style life.
Instead, I obviously live in a horror novel.
I am still recovering from the most mind-blowing, knee-weakening sex of my life, when several things happen in quick succession.
First, I feel Max’s body go rigid. He scrambles off of me. “What the hell is that?”
His obvious alarm sends a jolt of panic through me and I scramble to my feet as well. I look around, searching for whatever has Max reaching for his pants, like he may have to flee the house or fight off an invader.
Automatically, I grab my own clothes, pull my panties back on and then my T-shirt. “What is it?”
He points toward the door that leads to the bedrooms. “What the hell is that?”
“Oh.” I breathe out, relieved. “That’s Tinky. My rabbit.”
Max stills, his jeans on, but still unzipped. His shirt is clutched in his fist. “That thing is not a rabbit.”
Before I can tell him that Tinky is, in fact, a Flemish giant rabbit, Iago—who’s been asleep—wakes up. He bleats a nervous, “Fuck off,” and then starts plucking out his feathers. His words wake Skip and Lou. They start barking excitedly.
And then, the coup de grâce. The doorbell rings.
I look from Max to Tinky to Iago and finally to the door.
I know who it is.
Only Clive gets the animals this worked up. He’s like a foul wind blowing in before a storm.
“Oh, for the love of Fudgsicles,” I mutter, reaching for my yoga pants.
“Who—” Max starts to ask.
But I shush him, adding in a keep-your-mouth-shut glare for good measure. Aloud, I say, “Give me a minute.”
Of course Clive is already ringing the doorbell again. Which sets off a whole ’nother round of cacophony.
“Just a minute,” I call again, more loudly this time in case Clive wasn’t able to hear me over the barking. I smooth down my shirt, push my hair out of my face, and glance around the room, taking in the epic disaster my life has become.
Iago stress plucking. Tinky hopping slowly towards Max—because Tinky is overweight and does everything slowly. Max tugging on his clothes as he backs away from Tinky, looking for all the world like he expects Tinky to transform into one of those bloodthirsty rabbits from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
I hurry to the door, which isn’t even locked, and send up a silent prayer of thanks that Clive didn’t let himself in. I open the door and slip out, hopefully before Clive can see the chaos on the other side.
I close the door behind me, keeping my hand on the knob. Praying I look calmer than I feel, I smile up at Clive. “Hey, what’s up?”
He’s been pacing, because he’s at the far end of my porch. He takes a step toward me, like he expects me to let him in.
He stops when I don’t, giving me a concerned look. “Holly, what’s going on?”
I feel his gaze moving over me. Not in a good way, but in a way that makes me very, very aware of how disheveled I must look. I am braless. I probably have beard rash on my neck and cheeks. My panties are wet. And I am entirely too aware that I just had two earth-shattering climaxes in record time.
I know I’m fooling no one when I blurt, “Nothing. Why?”
“Can I come in?”
“That’s not a good idea.”
His eyes move from me to the door behind me, and then dart to the window beside the door, where—damn it!—the play of shadows make it obvious there’s someone there.
“You have someone here,” he says, looking stung. He takes in my appearance again, clearly putting two and two together and coming up with coitus interruptus.
