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Cellphone.
Cellphone—
Right.
Left it in the office, charging.
She shoved through the door, and grabbed the phone, answering on the move. “All good,” she muttered, giving the security word.
But she was anything but all good as she stood in the doorway to her bedroom, taking in the damage.
The drapes flapped, shredded to ribbons. Rain poured in, already pooling on the floor, everything loose tossed and overturned.
Backing out of the room, she wrestled the door closed behind her. She moved to the kitchen, blew out a breath, and reached for her phone. And hesitated.
A sharp flash sliced through the room, thunder rolling in behind it. The storm wasn’t letting up. She was surprised to still have power.
Felicity tapped his name. It rang once.
“You okay?” He sounded fully awake.
Of course he was awake. Only the dead could sleep through this.
“Not really,” she said. “Storm took out my bedroom window. It’s a—”
“On my way.”
The line went dead.
She stared at the phone for half a second.
Of course he was on his way. That’s what good friends did.
She checked on the dogs. They were quiet now but still trembling. “It’s okay. Ronan’s coming to help us.” She pulled up a playlist, and music filled the room. Hopefully, it would help take the edge off their fear.
Grabbing sneakers from the entry and a throw from the sofa, she returned to the kitchen to wait for Ronan, watching out the window as she wrapped the wool around her shoulders. It smelled faintly of dogs. For once, she didn’t mind.
Ronan arrived mere minutes later, water slicking off his jacket, and lifted a hand in an absent wave as he passed the kitchen. He paused just long enough to assess the damage, then jogged back to the truck, returning with a stepladder and what looked like a tarp.
She followed him from inside and stood in the bedroom doorway, watching as he balanced precariously on the ladder and wrestled the tarp into place and secured it.
A damn fine friend.
Felicity met him at the back door. He stood on the mat outside, utterly drenched. “It’ll hold till morning,” he said.
She tugged him in, shutting the door behind him. He shrugged out of his jacket, and she took it from him, draping it across a chair. His boots followed, thudding softly to the floor. His shirt clung damply to his skin, darkened at the neck and shoulders.
“There are fresh towels in the bathroom. Dry off—” She stopped, giving his soaked jeans a rueful look, then held up a hand. “Wait a sec.” She rushed into the utility room and returned with a pair of sweatpants and thick woolen socks waiting to be packed away. “The sweats are old.” She shrugged. “But clean. And dry.”
He took them, grinning. “Giving me your clothes to wear. Cute.”
“Don’t read into it,” she retorted. “It’s the least I can do. You saved my bedroom from further destruction.”
He winked and disappeared down the hall.
She stood for a beat, staring at the empty space he’d left behind. Her pulse thrummed — nothing to do with the storm and everything to do with the way wet denim clung to his very fine ass.
Shaking the traitorous thoughts from her mind, she moved past the bathroom and opened her bedroom door. A brown tarp stretched where the window had been, the curtains reduced to tattered strips, glass scattered across the floor.
