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I climb out of the hot tub again, water sluicing down my legs as I stoop down and pick up my phone, jamming at the screen for the entry code.
Shit, it’s cold out here.
Punch-punch-punch-punchity-punch-punch and the door clicks open. I race inside, sliding across the floor to the fridge and pour another healthy serving of wine.
A shiver runs down my spine and I’m freezing-ass cold in here, even though the heat’s kicked on and the temperature’s probably totally fine if you’re not half-naked and dripping wet. I snag my tumbler and hurry back outside, jumping into the hot water.
The door clicks behind me and the sound of the lock triggers something deep in the recesses of my brain.
No. No, no, no!
I glance through the glass doors, my cell glinting at me from the kitchen island.
Shit!The code.
My hand flies to my face and I cover my eyes, trying to visualize it. 1-3-7-something, I think. But there are like fifty numbers and letters and special characters in that code and there’s no way in hell I’m ever going to remember it.
Especially after two tall glasses of wine and zero food.
No chance.
I swivel my head around, glancing in both directions. A soft light glows in the window of the cabin next door. I’ll just head over and see if the neighbor has a spare key —probably a long shot— or, worst case, can let me borrow a phone to call the rental company.
Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy.
I drain the rest of my wine for liquid courage, then bundle up in my towel, wrapping it around me as tightly as possible. Both to block the wind and to hide my embarrassingly tiny bikini from view. Then I hoof it down the back porch steps and around to the front of the house, trudging through the dark wilderness.
Hitting the driveway, I follow the road up to the neighbor’s house, which is very similar to my rental cabin. Standing at the end of the walkway, I take another deep breath, then forge ahead, buoyed by the freezing cold and the stark realization that I have no desire to spend the night sleeping in the hot tub.
CHAPTER4
JACK
Damn,this merger is boring.
I must have read the same sentence five times and still have no idea what we’re trying to say or why it matters. Which is why I didn’t go to law school. Give me numbers and spreadsheets over words and legalese any damn day.
Knocking back the rest of my drink, I stretch my legs and stand, ready for a refill. I toss the thick legal document onto the rustic coffee table, then cross to the bar and pour another three fingers of whiskey into my glass.
Tap, tap, tap.
I still, cocking my ear toward the door. That can’t be a visitor, not all the way up here on a night like this.
Tap, tap, tap.
The same sound again.
“Alexa, pause.” The music stops mid-note and I hold my breath, listening.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Louder this time, and coming from the front of the house. I cautiously make my way through the den and dining area, then flick the front porch light on.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I mutter, staring out the frosted glass at the unexpected visitor.
Who looks shockingly similar to the pizza thief. Except now she’s only wearing a white towel, shivering on my doorstep.
Intrigued, I open the door. “Yes?”
