Page 53 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

I sit up, arranging myself into a sitting position, still in my robe after my bath because I don’t feel entirely comfortable lying around naked, and it’s cozy—like a hug I’m giving myself without all the effort.

I remain frozen on the bed as the scratching noise persists, as if something were gnawing at the wall. Or the wires in the wall? Or…

It sounds like it’s in my closet.

There is no way.

Can’t be.

I would have heard it before now, yeah?

Bethany and Jill heard it, and you made fun of them for being dramatic .

My roommates, who I may remind you, are both safely out of the house until the landlord comes with his pest control dude.

Shit.

How am I going to sleep with that critter—whatever it is—gnawing away at the drywall?

Scratch, scratch …

I hit mute on the TV to listen, this time getting up off the bed and going to the scene of the action. Pushing the shirts neatly hanging on the rack aside, I stick my arm through them and give the wall a hard thump.

“Take that, you little dickhead.”

I pause when it stops scratching, relieved.

“Be quiet.” I tell the sound. “You’re stressing me out.”

I put a hand to my chest and find my heart thumping wildly.

Then.

Just as I’m about to turn and leave the closet to walk back to the bed, I see a set of eyes.

Small, beady brown eyes stare back at me from the flannel shirts hanging on the top rack. I open my mouth to let out a bloodcurdling scream when the squirrel squeezes itself through the tiny hole it made and launches onto my dresser, knocking a perfume bottle to the floor.

“OH MY GOD!”

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

I beeline it to the door, slamming the door closed behind me, and holy shit, THERE IS A SQUIRREL TRAPPED INSIDE MY ROOM.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

What do I do?

“What do I do?” I’m shouting, arms flailing, twirling in frantic circles. “Where’s my phone, where’s my phone?!”

Frantically, with trembling hands, I find Bethany’s contact in my phone and hit CALL BETHANY, and of course it immediately goes to voicemail.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

What do I do?

I’m going to die in here at the hands of a rabid squirrel.

I dash to the kitchen and desperately search for the Post-it Note with our landlord’s cell phone number. I’m unable to locate it anywhere, so I drop my phone because my hands are shaking so bad.

“Calm down, Lizzy. The squirrel can’t get you.”

No.

It can’t get me, but it can shit all over my bedroom and tear apart everything inside of it and build a nest while the damn thing is locked in my room, and oh my god, what if he brings his friends to his little party?

There have to be more where this came from. Don’t they travel in packs?

What do I do?

Bethany hasn’t gotten my call. No doubt she’s at a bar somewhere whooping it up, carefree and shit, with bad cell service. Meanwhile, I can’t find the landlord’s phone number anywhere because my roommates have it, and my parents live too far away for my dad to help.

I worry my bottom lip.

I wish I had the window in my bedroom open because maybe the tiny brown heathen would take a hint and hit the road.

The light goes on next door.

The front door opens.

A big dude walks out and plops down on the wooden porch swing, eating something out of a white takeout container I cannot identify from here, leaving me with no option but to take myself next door and beg for his help.

Him.

He is my only hope.

I pull my robe tighter, cinching the belt securely so my cleavage isn’t showing, slide into a pair of flip-flops, and adjust the towel on my head.

I keep the towel on because it’s cold outside, and also, the last thing I need is to look like total shit when I go to the house next door because I look like total shit when my hair is damp.

Whatever.

Not the point !

Taking a deep breath, I open our front door and step through it. The wind whips my robe, opening it so my lady business is showing and I almost lose the towel wrapped around my damp hair.

The guy hasn’t noticed me come outside the way I noticed him, and I hope he’s a decent dude and not an insensitive asshole with no interest in my survival.

I have one eye on him as I move down the front porch steps, trying not to trip and kill myself, given that I’m basically stuck wearing a robe with nothing beneath it. Perhaps, he won’t even notice?

I’m on a mission: desperate times call for desperate measures…

Down the steps I go, shouting, “Help!” for good measure. “Help!”

I don’t know when the guy finally notices I’m in the yard because he doesn’t look up right away from whatever it is he’s eating, but when he does look up, his eyes widen.

He stops chewing, a white plastic fork halfway to his mouth.

“What,” he deadpans with a lack of greeting, and for a second, I’m taken aback. I at least expect him to say hello…

“Hi.” I get closer, panting as if I had just run a mile. “My name is Lizzy, and I live next door?—”

I throw a thumb over my shoulder to point back at our house for good measure.

He cuts me off. “I know who you are.”

He does?

How does he know who I am?

I’ve never been introduced to this guy before.

I would absolutely remember if I had. They don’t really throw parties, and neither do we, so I wouldn’t have had a reason to go into their house.

We don’t barbecue or talk in the backyards, which is strange, considering these guys seem to grill out a lot.

Anyway.

He’s massive.

And bearded.

And has a really deep voice. He’s basically a man? But probably my age, so it’s strange reconciling the appearance and age, knowing that he’s not a full-fledged adult but looks like one.

“I am so sorry I’m in my robe. I ran out of the house. I’m sort of in the middle of an emergency?” I ramble, causing his eyes to widen, especially when I pull my robe tighter across my chest. “My roommates aren’t home, and our landlord isn’t calling us back, so I didn’t know where else to go.”

He abruptly stands, porch swing flying back and hitting the guardrails with a loud thud.

“I hope you’re not here because you need help.”

Yes, I need help ! I was literally shouting ‘help! help!’ when I ran over!

“I’m sorry, what is your name? There’s a squirrel in my bedroom,” I blurt out. “It flew out of the wall and scared the shit out of me.”

“Brodie. It’s in your bed room? That flew out of your wall?” He sounds appropriately horrified. “A live squirrel? With fur and stuff?”

“Yes, locked in my bedroom.” I can hardly get the story out fast enough. “I heard scratching—lots of scratching. Was just lying there in my robe minding my business when I heard it again.”

My neighbor dude is hanging on my every word even though they’re the details he did not ask for and probably did not want.

“So I go into the closet, right? Just to see if I was losing my mind or not—and I follow the sound, pushing back all my clothes, and there he is! Staring back at me.”

“What’d you do?” His food is long forgotten, and so are the formalities. I still have no idea who this guy is or what his name is.

“I screamed! He’s in my bedroom as we speak, probably shitting on all my stuff and building nests and…” I shudder. “Can you please come help me? I have no idea what to do and I don’t want to be in there alone.”

Chapter 2

Brody

“ Can you please help me? I don’t know what to do…”

Lizzy Campbell is on my porch, asking for my help. It’s textbook damsel in distress bullshit that I hadn’t asked for.

Granted, I think she’s hot, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t had a hard-on for her since she and her roommates moved into the house next door at the beginning of the semester, not that I’ll be declaring my love to her anytime soon.

But as soon as I saw her on moving day, carrying those cardboard boxes up the front porch steps of their house with her long dark hair, short denim shorts, white tank top, Converse sneakers… yeah.

She’s good-looking, big deal.

Plenty of people are.

But no fucking way would I ever go over there, crossing the property line that separates her yard and ours—not that I’m too chickenshit to do it. Yes, I could have helped them on moving day, but moving them in was not a me problem.

And don’t think I’m stupid enough to tell my own idiot roommates about my dumb little crush…pfft. It’s not a crush. I just think she’s cute, so what?

Why wouldn’t I say something to them? ‘Cause they’re the type of guys who call dibs on women, and the less attention I draw to her, the better—not that I ever plan on asking her out myself.

Plus. They’d bust my nuts about it the first chance they got, and the last thing I want is for them to embarrass me in front of her.

Because they would, because they’re assholes and get off on shit like that.

Public humiliation is guy speak for showing that he cares.

Considering she lives directly next door, the chances of being embarrassed by my dick roommates are highly probable.

Don’t need that kind of drama, and therefore, I would never say anything. I do just fine embarrassing myself on my own without anyone’s help.

Besides, just because I think someone is cute doesn’t mean I’m interested. Lots of things are cute—puppies, kittens, babies. That doesn’t mean I have to think about them all the time.

So I put it out of my mind the way I do with everything else and moved on.

“ Can you please help me, I don’t know what to do…”

Can I help her? Sure.

Do I want to?

No.

Am I gonna?

Yeah. Probably.

Why? Don’t ask, I have no idea. I’m feeling generous, I guess, and there is no one else home who she can con into going over there to look at her place. It’s just me. And even if I wasn’t the only one home, I’m curious enough to help her anyway.

“Have you tried calling your landlord?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Obviously, we’ve called our landlord. He’s useless.”

They always are.

I’m quiet for a few seconds so I can think. Squinting down at her, I scratch at the back of my skull. “You said it’s in your bedroom?