Page 87 of Haunted Spurs

5,000.

Panic sets in. Five thousand words. In a single session.

There can only be one explanation, and it's tragic: more than likely, over half of my rambling is pure trash. It needs to be deleted. Thrown out and rewritten from scratch.

Three more knocks on the door, louder.

I let out a heavy sigh that scrapes my throat, snap the laptop shut, get up from the window seat, and go to open it.

"Ready to party?!"

Carolina's exuberant face pops up the second I turn the handle. She is an explosion of energy that brutally contrasts with my existential-crisis vibe.

"What?" I croak, confused.

Instead of answering right away, Carolina runs her hands over her hips, tugging the bodice of her skimpy denim dress a little lower. Then, with a clear, crystalline laugh, she twirls in the hallway, elegantly bending one leg to show off a pair of cowgirl boots trimmed with dark fringe.

"Susan, Indya, and I are throwing an underground party downstairs," she announces, her eyes shining with pure euphoria.

It's my own personal circle of hell.

"Well... I'll pass," I declare, nodding toward the closed laptop on the window seat behind me. "Working."

"No, no, no, missy." Carolina points a finger at me with a smile that leaves no room for debate. "Absolutely not happening. Put on a nice dress, freshen up, and... get your cowboy." She shoots me a shameless wink and, completely ignoring my murderous glare, points over my shoulder. Toward the closed bathroom door.

From inside, comes the rush of the shower.

A sound that, for at least fifteen minutes now, I've been desperately, pathetically trying to tune out. The water beats against the tiles, and under that spray is a new-cowboy I am desperately trying not to picture lathering himself up. I am fighting with all my might to forget how his large hands slide over his own skin. I am desperately trying not to remember the feeling of his naked body pressed against mine.

Carolina takes a step back into the hallway and gives me a conspiring smile.

"Starts in exactly an hour," she dictates. "If you aren't downstairs, I'm coming to drag you down myself."

"Sounds like the title of a new B-list horror movie," I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest.

She giggles, a vibrant sound that fades down the hall, and I already see her marching off to pound frantically on someone else's door.

I shake my head, closing the door behind me. I roll my eyes, but my sigh of relief dies in my throat.

Because, in that exact moment, the bathroom door handle clicks down.

The door opens, releasing a thick cloud of hot steam that smells like men's body wash and cedar.

And Ron Willers steps out.

My brain completely short-circuits.

He is gorgeously, scandalously wet. He has only a white towel wrapped precariously low around his hips. His hair falls messy and wet across his forehead. Tiny droplets bead on his broad shoulders and chiseled chest, sliding inexorably downward, tracing the grooves of his abs until they disappear beneath the terry cloth hem.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck, drying himself off absentmindedly, and when he looks up, he finds me there, petrified in the middle of the room.

His blue eyes light up with that familiar, dangerous spark.

"What's wrong?"

My gaze lingers, for a second too long, on the V-line of his hips. I swallow hard. The lump in my throat is the size of a billiard ball. The heat radiating from his half-naked body seems to fill every cubic inch of the room.

I part my lips, desperately seeking oxygen.