Page 67 of Something Borrowed

Their hot chocolates were long gone, the drawing and paintings viewed, and suddenly Cal was very aware of a fact he’d done a good job of ignoring until now. He was in Vic’s bedroom. Her bedclothes hung on a hook on the door. (What? Really, Cal? Bedclothes? 1860 wants their vocab back!) Or he assumed they were her bed—pajamas, whatever! A silky blush pink robe that he could imagine all too well against her soft skin and a pair of fuzzy, shapeless fleece pants and a matching pullover. What did it say about him that he found the idea of Vic in the latter just as sexy as the idea of her in silk?

“We should, uh, head back downstairs,” she said as if reading his mind.

As they were leaving Vic’s room, something shiny hung with a tack by the light switch caught his eye: a small, enameled sparrow on a keychain—that notably didn’t have any keys. It could’ve been cute or whimsical, except that the craftsmanship was crude, the detailing haphazard and cheap looking. It stuck out like a sore thumb because, except for it, Vic’s walls were completely bare. It was an odd choice to be literally the only decoration on any of the four walls. She was an artist. Why weren’t her walls filled with her own stuff?

He motioned at the bird. “What’s this guy’s story? He doesn’t seem like you.”

“Oh, he’s me all right,” Vic said in an oddly dark tone. “Me to a tee.”

She didn’t volunteer any further explanation, and it was clear she didn’t want to talk about it, so Cal let it drop.

Back in the kitchen, Vic reached for Cal’s mug just as he went to place it in the dishwasher beside hers. Her hand grazed his forearm in a butterfly-soft touch that vibrated through every part of his body. Was it his imagination, or did she inhale sharply at the contact too?

Definitely your imagination, you weirdo! Calm down.

Vic shut the dishwasher—shut it very firmly, Cal noted—and he turned to go.

Vic followed him to the entranceway and stood nearby as he put on his outdoor gear. “It was fun working with you tonight,” he said, “but please don’t feel like—

A startled shriek cut him off—Vic’s shriek. Face pale, she pointed at the window behind him.

Chapter 33

I can’t believe she was right. I just can’t believe it, Vic thought, racing to the window.

Cal wheeled around to see what she was pointing at. Then he rushed to stand beside Vic and leaned close to the glass too, squinting into the darkness. “What exactly are we looking at?”

But Vic was still coming to terms with it herself. “I can’t believe she was right,” she repeated, this time out loud.

“Who was right? About what?”

“You don’t see the eyes?”

Cal startled. “Eyes?” He peered outside again, uneasily. “No, I only see snow—snow and shadows. Did you see eyes?”

Vic nodded.

“Like there’s someone out there? Some guy lurking around on the porch?”

“No, no. Sorry—a rat. There’s a rat.”

The tension left Cal’s face. His shoulders relaxed. “Like not a metaphorical rat? An actual rodent rat?”

“Yeah, exactly. A rodent rat.”

At the confirmation, Cal relaxed still further. He strained to see out the window again, but this time it was clearly out of curiosity. He’d turned off investigative mode. And Vic, as ever it seemed when Cal was around, was struck by how nice it was to have him there, to not face everything alone.

“Audra was complaining earlier—”

“Audra, complaining? You don’t say—” Cal interrupted his own joke. “Wait! There! Is that what you mean?”

The eyes Vic had seen—eyes glowing an eerie, almost fluorescent, green when the porch light caught them—had moved from near the door where she’d first spotted them. Now they were in the far corner of the porch. She nodded.

Cal shook his head. “Not a rat,” he said, when the green-eyed shadow moved again, jumping from the porch to become a gray streak of movement against the snow. “Too big. Plus, rats don’t move like that. Cat.”

“Oh no! It’s too cold for a cat to be outdoors all alone.”

“Nah, cats are tough. It’s probably used to it. Some feral stray or something.”