I jump out of bed, furious. I need something to distract me from my anger, or I might just drive over to Frostbite and cause a big scene.
Deep breaths.
No. I won’t give that jerk the satisfaction of seeing how he’s rattled me.
Instead, I get started on my long to-do list.
I take my duffel to Rowan’s laundry room and dump my stinky clothes into the washing machine. After I start the laundry, I march over to my house.
The thought of seeing the damage is daunting, but I’ve got to rip the Band-Aid off. Rowan’s going to fix it all. I just have to remember that.
The front door whines on its hinges as I open it, a new sound that it’s never made before.
I take a cautious step inside, and my heart leaps in my throat.
The living room is ruined. Everything is covered in black soot. A strip of sunlight pierces through a hole in the ceiling, slicing through the husk that used to be my couch.
And the bookshelf… The bookshelf is an ashy graveyard of all the stories I love so much. The stories that got me through the hard parts of growing up. The stories that let me escape into fictional worlds where I could pretend to live the life of the heroine. A life full of romance, adventure, and opportunity.
A life I doubt I’ll ever have.
My vision blurs for a few moments. I sniff and wipe the wetness that’s somehow appeared on my cheeks.
Oh, there’s no point in feeling sorry for myself. Who’s that going to help?
It takes me a half hour to pack two suitcases of stuff, mostly clothes, some books I kept in my bedroom, and other essentials.
When I drag the heavy suitcase up Rowan’s front porch stairs, I pull something in my back. By the time I’m done, I’m sweaty from exertion, my back aches, and I’m no less pissed off than when I started.
I take a shower. I wash my hair. I put on my freshly laundered clothes.
By the time dusk comes around, I’ve been stewing in my anger at Brett for hours, and it’s close to boiling over.
I’m so damn tempted to at least call him and give him a piece of my mind, but even in my current state, I know that would only make it seem like his plan is working. He wants to get a reaction out of me. I refuse to give him that.
I’m clicking through the TV channels, trying to find something to keep myself away from my phone, when the front door opens.
Rowan is home.
I turn off the TV and cup my palms over my mouth. I have to tell him what Brett's done. How else can I explain why I’ll be sitting at home for the next two weeks?
When he comes into the room, my breath hitches.
Oh boy.
Honestly it’s just not fair that he looks likethat. Today, his outfit’s as ordinary as it can be—a gray T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Nothing special, right?
Wrong.
Somehow, this man has the befuddling ability to look like he’s stumbled off the pages ofGQ, no matter what he wears. I suddenly understand why some people are willing to pay hundreds of dollars for a simple cotton shirt—on him, that T-shirt looks like it’s worth a million bucks.
And don’t even get me started on those arms. Those tatted, muscled forearms are a work of art.
Heat creeps up my neck. If those arms had been on display when he kissed me in my kitchen, I think I would have let him do whatever the hell he wanted to me.
Wait, what? No. No, I wouldn’t.
“Why are you shaking your head?”
