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To think she’d gone all the adult years of her life without this feeling of exhilaration, of escape, of pure joy and satisfaction. She sighed and smiled to herself. Starr would definitely be having a masturbatory orgasm in Stacy’s next book.
As wonderful as her self-produced orgasm had been, though, it paled to what she’d experienced in Michael’s arms.
No use crying over what might not be, and no use sitting around waiting for him to return her email. What she needed was exercise. She’d become quite a slouch, sitting around the townhome doing nothing but crying, eating, crying some more. Those days were over. She hadn’t run since before the conference, and her body was feeling the loss. She went to the sink and washed her private parts and then her toy, put it away, and put on some fresh jogging clothes. After tying her long hair into a ponytail, she smiled to herself. The sun shone brightly and the temperature hovered around seventy degrees—perfect running weather.
She locked the door, hooked her house key to her jogging pants, and started at a steady pace to the park where she jogged regularly.
The sunshine warmed her skin, the sweet scent of fresh flowers permeated her as she inhaled. She had missed this, missed running.
She turned the corner of the street that would lead her to the park. She looked up at the cerulean sky. Such a beautiful day, such a beautiful world.
Her neck jerked at the shrill shriek of tires skidding.
Then a thousand knives cut into her body as her head thudded onto the cement. Crack… Blackness enshrouded her.
* * *
Michael stood nervously on the cement doorstep of Stacy’s townhome. She’d emailed him, so she must still care. He’d returned the email as soon as he’d received it two days ago.
Then…nothing.
Was this some sort of cruel joke?
He’d called in a favor to his cousin, a private investigator, who’d helped him uncover Stacy’s real last name—Oppenheimer—and her address in a Chicago suburb. Lucky for him, she didn’t live far. They’d both flown to the conference in Denver.
He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
A man answered.
Oh, shit.
He was nice looking, tall with graying dark hair, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Was he Stacy’s boyfriend?
“I’m looking for Stacy Summers…Oppenheimer.”
“Are you a friend of hers?” the man asked.
Michael cleared his throat. “Yes. Is she here?”
“I guess you haven’t heard,” the man said. “I’m Kevin McNeal, Stacy’s neighbor. Come on in.”
Heard what? Michael stepped inside. “What’s going on? Is she okay?”
“So far, she seems to be. It’s still up in the air.”
Michael’s heart plummeted to his stomach. “Oh my God.”
“As you probably know, Stacy doesn’t have any immediate family living.”
Michael nodded.
“She carries my name and number in her wallet as her emergency contact information. Two days ago, she was hit by a car while she was out jogging. The jerk didn’t even stop.”
“Oh, God.” Nausea rumbled in the pit of his stomach. Beth all over again.
“She’s alive. And out of ICU as of this morning, thank God.”
ICU? “Is she conscious?”
