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I spent half the night setting them up. And Belinda? She slept through the entire thing.

Gods, that woman sleeps like the dead.

Cute too, in her little nightgown and sleep mask. I mean, who actually wears a sleep mask?

Then again, considering she has a poltergeist particularly fond of switching the lights on and off at all hours, I can't blame her.

Not that I stand there watching her sleep.

I'm not a fucking creep.

I merely—check that she is asleep.

Several times. For operational purposes.

This morning, I'm watering my prizewinning Brandywine heirlooms. Or pretending to. And I’ve been at it for entirely too long already.

But I can’t make myself go inside.

Mostly, I'm waiting to see which trick Belinda discovers first.

Then, almost right on cue, I hear it.

Pop!

And a familiar scream splits the morning.

I grin.

Then—

“OH MY GODDESS! HOLY COW! DAAAMIAAAAAN!”

My grin disappears.

Shit. She sounds really scared.

A moment later, Belinda bursts through her front door wearing nothing but a towel.

A very small towel.

I glance around quickly to ensure no one else is about. They’re not.

Lucky for them.

She's soaking wet. Her dark hair is plastered to her shoulders. Water runs down her legs. And my brain ceases all higher functioning.

Mine.

Oh shit. What the what now?

This can’t be happening.

Not fucking now.

She races across the lawn.

“Help! Damian!”