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Typing out a quick text, I tell her I’m home and already in my PJs, thanking her again for meeting me tonight. Once I’ve hit send, I lean over and grab the box, but the lid has come off and laying on the floor beside my couch is an earring.
The same earring I was wearing, and lost.
Mindlessly, my hand goes back to my earlobe and I rub it, fighting furiously with my thoughts, trying to make sense of this whole thing.
But as my chest tightens and my breaths become shallow, I realize there is only one good explanation. Someone found my earring and left it on my door.
And that person isn’t Sophie.
Or Mack.
Which only means…
I move so fast that my feet get tangled in the blanket and I fall off the couch. My ankle wrenches again as I bang my side on the coffee table and lose my breath for a second.
“Fuck… shit, shit, shit.”
I have to get out of here.
If they left it on my door, they know where I live.
And if they know where I live, they could come back.
Calm down, Greer.
Think clearly.
But I can’t.
I can’t think clearly.
All I can think about is getting the hell out of this apartment.
CHAPTER TEN
MACK
Logically,I should be passed out in my California king bed about right now, but my body still feels charged after the game.
Oh, fuck, who am I kidding? My body is charged because of Greer. All I’ve been able to think about, when I’m not behind the plate, is her, especially after Monday when I found out someone is stalking her. And then tonight, I knew she was running from something or someone. I could see the fear and trepidation all over her gorgeous face.
I damn near followed her stubborn ass home, but thought better of it.
Greer Bradley is a woman that could sear your balls off by just glaring at them, which is one of the reasons seeing her so rattled is disconcerting.
And don’t even get me started on my need to keep her safe. It damn near overwhelmed me the other night at Owen and Sophie’s. I wanted to throw her over my shoulder and go caveman on her sassy, stubborn ass.
I’m standing in the kitchen, when I swear I hear someone drive up to my house. Checking the security panel, I’m right—a car has pulled up my drive and parked in front of the house.
Walking to the door, I swing it open just about the time a disheveled Greer walks up on my front porch. Before I even have a chance to ask her what she’s doing here, her face crumbles and she starts to sob.
Not cry.
Sob.
“Come inside.” I can hear the harshness in my tone and feel her shoulders tense, but I’m not mad at her. The anger isn’t because she’s here. It’s because I know I’m going to lose my shit when she tells me why.
Thankfully, she willingly lets me guide her inside the house and take her bag.
