Page 37 of Wicked Fortune

I don’t want to believe any of the thoughts swirling through my brain.

Mostly, I don’t want to want him.

But I can’t erase him. I’ve left sober behind, and my thoughts no longer obey my commands. Even if I was stone cold steady, I’m not sure I could banish him, no matter how much I might tell myself I want to.

Fuck it.

I stand and start pacing, albeit unsteadily. I need him out of my head. I need to step back so I can have some perspective on this man. On who he is. On what I fear he’s done.

The next thing I know, my phone’s in my hand, and the line is ringing.

It rings twice before he picks up. “Hey, stranger,” he says, his words full of heat.

The sound of his voice snaps me back, and I hang up, my heart pounding even harder. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The screen lights up as he calls me back immediately. I consider ignoring it, but I push the damn button anyway.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to sound casual. “That was a butt dial.”

“Sure it was.” I can practically hear him smirking on the other end. “I can come over. Bring some wine. Or maybe something stronger …”

Something about his tone both entices and disappoints. Like he’s too eager, too quick to slip into that role.

“Tempting,” I say. “But no.”

“You sure? I’m⁠—”

But I don’t know what he is because I’ve ended the call.

Then I pull up my contacts, find the entry for Decker and hit block. I don’t want a fast fuck with my go-to FWB.

I want Holt. And I hate myself for that weakness.

God, I’m a mess.

Without thinking, I dial another number—Bree’s. One ring. Another. Then another.

When it kicks to voicemail I glance at the time. Almost midnight.

Well, damn.

I toss my phone onto the coffee table and pull the snuggly blanket up around my shoulders. I should be tired, but I’m not. I guess my cat nap took care of that. So instead of moving to the bedroom and sliding into bed, I use the remote to click on the television, then randomly poke around the various streaming menus until I stumble on Jagged Edge. I haven’t seen it in years, so I hit play, pick up my wine, and settle back to watch this movie where a man kills the woman he’s sleeping with.

And how fucked up is that?

FOURTEEN

The rattle of a key in the lock jolts me awake, and I leap off the couch, slamming my shin against the coffee table in the process. My heart pounds as my gaze darts around the dim room. For one insane second, I’m certain that Jack Forrester is here, and it’s not Glenn Close he’s come to kill, but me.

Then I realize that I’m not lost inside Jagged Edge. It’s Bree.

“Are you insane?” I howl, clutching my leg as pain radiates through my entire body. My voice is sharp with irritation and laced with lingering fear. “You scared me to death.”

“Sorry! I’m sorry! But you freaked me out, too. You called. You hung up. What was I supposed to do?”

“Assume I hit the wrong speed dial?” I press my fingers to my temples, then stumble toward the kitchen, desperate for some Ibuprofen.

“I know—I just …”