Page 25

JENNA

Geordie and I lie in silence, our breathing amplified by the fear in the air. Footsteps come up the stairs—steady, deliberate—and they’re heading this way.

“Bathroom,” I hiss, pointing at my ensuite. “Get your clothes.”

I hear frantic scrabbling, the rustle of fabric, the dull thud of one cowboy boot colliding with another. My heart slams against my ribs.

Please, please let Dad not hear that. Let him not worry I’m sick again and just walk in—because if he does, one flick of the switch and he’ll find Geordie naked, the room drenched in the scent of sex. And, if Geordie makes it to the bathroom, please let him gain control of his breathing. Right now amongst the panicky gasps, I swear I can hear his heart pounding, too, but it’s probably my own.

Geordie moves with remarkable stealth for a man of his size. In the dim light, I watch him slip across the room and into the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft, controlled click, even though I bet every instinct screams at him to slam it.

A few breaths later, there’s a quiet knock.

“You OK love. ”

“Yeah Dad, I’m OK.” It takes all my mental effort to sound normal.

“Thought I’d bring Andy. To cheer you up.”

The door notches open. Shit. I snatch my dressing gown from the floor, hoping to drag it on in time to spring to the gap and meet him there. The last thing I want is my father setting foot in the room, the air itself evidence. One flick of the light switch—my hair a wreck, my bed destroyed—and he’ll know.

But, before I’ve had a chance to cover myself and make the intercept, a small black shape darts in.

“Here he is then,” Dad says, in his warm rasp. “Snuggle up with him and get some sleep, eh?”

“Will do. Thanks Dad. You too.”

“Goodnight, love.”

“Goodnight, Dad.”

The door glides shut.

I exhale relief, reaching for the lamp. Its glow reveals Andy, frozen like a statue, one questioning paw raised, head tilted in curiosity, beady eyes narrowed in suspicion. He sniffs the air, and his wiry beard bristles.

He knows.

A low, menacing growl rumbles from his throat. He turns towards the bathroom, advertising his next move. I leap from the bed, but I’m two seconds too slow. Andy launches at the bathroom door in a frenzied explosion of barking and clawing.

“Andy!” I give a frantic whisper yell. Panic claws up my spine. Surely Dad must hear this riot even without the help of his hearing aids, which he usually tucks away in their case the moment practice is over. Please let tonight not be the night he’s deviated from this small protest at their necessity.

My brain fires into action. Last time I duped Andy away from a seek and destroy mission, I used the haggis soft toy. It sits high on a dressing table, a little worse for wear, but still intact enough to serve as a suitable distraction for the little shit.

“Andy,” I call softly, snatching the toy

When I toss it at him, it bounces off his back. He whirls, a look of canine outrage on his hairy face. If he could talk, he’d be saying, “How dare you use me for target practice?” But the barking stops. He no longer slams his body against the door as if possessed by a demon. His jaws snap open in glee, and he pounces, baby shark teeth clamping down with a victorious squeak . He flops to the floor, mauling his prize with growls of satisfaction.

One problem solved. Now how to get Geordie out of the bathroom without bloodshed?

They say necessity is the mother of invention, and god knows I’ve got a desperate need here. Making cooing noises, I approach Andy warily. He’s never bitten Dad, or me, or any woman, in fact. His favourite victims are blonde-haired men, but I still don’t trust him. However, I need to be brave if my favourite blonde-haired man is going to get out of here unscathed.

Andy releases the toy for a moment, grinning up at me with pride. I snatch it away, wiggle it tantalisingly, and then launch it across the room. Understanding the game, he leaps and grabs the stuffie, worries at it with his teeth accompanied by a satisfied growl, then releases it, looking at me expectantly, stubby tail wagging. Guilt stabs at me. I’ve never actually played with Andy before. Mum always did, even in her last weeks. He must miss her .

With each round of the game, I strategically move myself closer to the bathroom door, eventually arriving hard up against it.

“Geordie,” I breathe, hoping he can hear me over the slurping sounds of dog drool.

“What the fuck are we going to do?” he hisses back. There’s a hysterical note in his voice.

“I want you to stand back a little.” I force myself to sound calm, like I’ve got this under control. “When the door opens, I’m going to toss a toy in, lure Andy in there. You get out past him and we shut the door.”

“Jen, the plan sounds good in principle, but I’m not sure…”

“It’s the only plan.”

A pause. Then, “OK, let’s do this.”

I swipe the toy from beneath Andy’s paws while he’s taking a moment to gloat. One hand poised on the door handle, I speak softly against the wood.

“Geordie. Are you ready to go?”

I hover the wee haggis toy just out of reach of Andy’s delighted bouncing. Right now, I’m grateful for his terrier high prey drive. He’s totally focused on the toy, not the voice of the man in the bathroom.

“As good as I’ll ever be,” Geordie mutters back.

“Got all your clothes?” We’ve only got one shot at this. There won’t be a second.

“Yep,” he says.

“OK, stand back so I don’t wipe you out with the door.” I ignore the leaping dog. “On the count of three.”

I waggle the toy at Andy .

“One…two…three!”

I fling the door open, and lob the haggis toy right across the bathroom. The deft throw is as good as those of my childhood rugby playing days. It bounces and lands, a grey shadow tucked beneath the toilet.

Andy zooms past me, a black arrow in full flight. He skitters to a stop by the toilet, pounces on the haggis and turns to show off his catch, his feet pattering in a triumphant dance.

The few seconds are enough for Geordie. He comes flying out. Andy spins, eyes wide with betrayal. But the moment passes. His toy-obsessed brain takes over, and he drops to the floor, chewing at his prize with glee. The haggis toy won’t survive, but its sacrifice is in a good cause. A life for a life.

Pale-faced, Geordie balances, pulling on his jeans. I can’t help but admire his bare torso, all golden in the lamp glow. Nicely sculpted pecs invite the memory of my hands flowing over them. A decent set of abs—not washboard, but still enough to beg a girl’s lips to kiss their way down them. The delicate fuzz of curls on his chest that I’ve already love burying my nose in, inhaling his musk.

However, if I want to enjoy these delights again, it’s important we develop a second plan—how to get him the hell out of my bedroom before Dad finds out. I regret my impatience encouraging him here tonight. By this time tomorrow, Geordie will have his own room at Nathan’s place up at MacFarlane’s, and we will be safe—physically, at least.

What we’re not safe from is the feelings I get swirling inside of me, telling me I want more than just the touch of Geordie; more than his lips on mine; more than his fingers flickering at my clit, lighting up my body; more than the length of him inside me, the powerful thrusts igniting a fire. I’m greedy and undeserving, but I want all of him.

Crazy bastard that he is, he wants me like that too. I can see it in his eyes, as he leans in to press a kiss on my tender bruised mouth.

Well, he thinks he does, but it’s early days, and like Adam before him, the more Geordie knows me, the less he’ll want. He’ll see that our arrangement is best for both of us. Me with no expectations and him with no commitment.

Despite my dark thoughts, I can’t help but smile into the kiss as he says, “Wish me luck.”

With quiet footsteps, he moves to the curtained window. Drawing back the drapes, he opens the sliding door and steps out onto the small Juliet balcony. It looks like my Romeo has an escape plan. I rise and move to stand at his shoulder.

“Are you sure?” I whisper. “It’s a long way down.”

“Dead easy,” he replies, leaning in to press a final farewell kiss. I melt into it, savouring his lips so warm in contrast to the wisps of chill night air brushing across my cheek. At least I’ll have this memory if he kills himself plummeting from my balcony.

Geordie levers himself onto the railing. He swings one leg over, then a second, before gripping the steel and twisting around to hang from the side, long arms stretched like an orangutan, legs dangling. It’s effortless, his upper body strength perfect for this.

For someone with his length of leg, it’s only a small drop to the ground below. He lets go and lands in a half-crouch, with a solid thud.

Grinning up at me, Geordie stands, offers a wave, and jogs off down the driveway. Thank god he had the sense to leave the van down the side road. I hope he’s going to make it that far. Security lights fire into life as he passes each sensor, and I hold my breath, waiting for the front door to fling open and my father to appear. That’s absolutely not the thing I want because Dad’s the sort of guy who believes he could still run down and tackle an intruder.

With Geordie’s rugby-honed speed and agility, I doubt Dad would catch him, but he’d get close enough to identify a certain lanky blindside flanker with a mop of golden curls and no good reason to be on our property at nine-thirty on a Wednesday night.

I brace myself. No door bursts open. No yelling. The only sound, besides the thumping of my heart, is the rhythm of cowboy boots, echoing down the driveway and fading into the dark.