Page 8

It takes me a few seconds before I realize I’m at Maggie’s. I reach for my phone. Nine thirty. Outside, the sun is setting. Have I slept the entire day?

The house is silent, though. Maybe the sounds that woke me weren’t real and I have only dreamed them up. I turn my body to the side, but then I hear grunting. Faint, but real. It’s coming from below me.

I don’t know what to do. Should I go and check what—or who—is causing the noise? It’s probably Maggie, who’s arrived home early after another disastrous date. The poor thing. If she’s crying or angrily grunting at her pillow, I should be there to comfort her.

Just in case it’s not her at all, I grab a coat hanger from the closet. If there’s a creep in the house, I’ll hit him in the crown jewels with it. Heck, I’ll even maim his face if I have to. I’m positive a judge will understand it was nothing but self-defense.

I slip out of the room and walk around like a fool for an entire five minutes. Where are these sounds coming from? I already checked the entire house. Twice. I’m contemplating signing up for a mental check-up when I see a hatch door in the floor of a small alcove near the entrance. I crouch down and put my ear against it. Soft rock music travels upward. Surely a crook wouldn’t break into someone’s house to listen to rock music? The grunts sound louder now, and they’re accompanied by punches, almost as if someone’s being beat up. The rock music is probably meant to drown out those noises.

Before dialing 911, I decide to take a peek and assess the situation. I already made a fool of myself once today, so before impulsively calling the cops, I should at least be certain about what’s happening.

I grab the metal handle and gently pull the hatch door open. I lower myself flat on my belly to get a good look, but all I can see are the stairs leading further down.

I slide down a bit, my hands placed on the stairs so I don’t tumble down all the way. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. A guy is hitting a punch bag, with eighties rock music blaring through a set of speakers. His broad, naked back is all I can see, and I’m mesmerized by his muscles that tighten every time he hits the bag.

If I could get a little bit further down the stairs, just a smidge, I might actually see the back of his head as well. I lift my hand and extend my arm to place it a tad further, but unlike the guy punching the bag, my arms aren’t made of pure muscle and they can’t hold the weight of my body.

Before I can right the situation, I slide down the stairs. There’s nothing I can do except brace myself for impact. Thank goodness I’m heading straight for a black beanbag. That should cushion the blow.

Tears fill my eyes when I hit the bottom of the stairs. My sight is blurry, but I can still make out the silhouette of the guy. He’s crouched down beside me, and I instinctively point the coat hanger at him.

“Wow, relax, Elle,” he says.

I blink a couple of times and that’s when I realize the punching guy is Colton. My eyes flit around the room, trying to find a hole I can disappear into.

He extends his hand and pulls me up. “Are you okay?”

“Mmmm.”

He leads me to his bed and tells me to sit down. He then gently touches my face, his fingers merely brushing my skin. “There’s a small bruise on your forehead, but that seems to be it.”

I rub my head. It hurts like hell.

He grins at me. “To what do I owe this slightly unconventional visit?”

“I, uhm, well…” Get it together, Elle. Don’t let this be a repeat of the airport scenario. “I heard some noises and thought it would be wise to check them out. Maggie is out, so I thought it might be a burglar.”

“Didn’t Maggie tell you I live here too?”

I swallow. Colton actually lives here? “I’m afraid she withheld that crucial piece of information from me.” Gosh, why do I sound like some fancy businesswoman on trial? “Are you one of them?” I ask.

“People who have a bedroom?” he asks with a frown.

I put my hand on my hip. “A doomsday prepper. You know, because this is a basement space. Below the ground and all.”

“Of course I’m one of them,” he says. His grin tells me he’s lying, though.

“Good to know.”

“What were you planning on doing with that?” He points at the coat hanger. “Making sure my clothes were all neat and tidy in the closet instead of on the floor?”

“No. I was going to maim your face,” I say, heat flushing my cheeks. “Or hit you in the crown jewels.”

“You were going to hit me in the crown jewels with a coat hanger?” He laughs. The sound is irresistible. It’s so good that I could listen to it all night long. His eyes catch mine, and my entire body tingles.

I can’t help but laugh as well. “Not you personally. The crook I thought was beating up someone in here.”

“It’s just me in here. Me and my trusty punch bag.”