Page 38 of Fragile Lives

An ounce of sudden dread washes over me as I try the keys—because you never know—but they work. I step inside and let out a loud sigh. The place is amazing. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a shithole, but the potential of it, the feel I’m getting…It’s unexplainable. It feelsright.

As soon as you enter the cabin, you pretty much step on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Two beat-up chairs are by its side. The tiny kitchen on the left takes probably a fourth of thewhole house. It has a decent sized round breakfast table and two wooden stools. Further into the cabin, there is a bed with two wooden nightstands. Two doors by the kitchen are probably a closet and a bathroom.

I unload the groceries in the kitchen and start making coffee. It’s four p.m. and it’s already getting dark, but it’s never too late for a cup of joe. There’s an old drip coffee maker, and I wonder how Justin, the resident coffee snob, survived here for a whole weekend without a fancy espresso maker. Any coffee will do for me as long as it smells good—I’m not picky.

As I start pouring myself a cup, I hear the engine of a car outside, and lead settles into my stomach. I peek through the window and find a black Range Rover parking beside my sedan. I don’t know this car, which means only one thing.

My stalker has found me.

I look around for my purse and rush to grab it. Nervously digging inside, I look for the gun I purchased recently and don’t find it. Shit! I must have forgotten it in the car. And Kenneth calls me smart—I want to facepalm myself. I start running around like I got stung by a bee, looking for a weapon.

After digging through kitchen cabinets, I find a cast iron pan that weighs a ton. Perfect! I grab it and run to the door. If the intruder tries to get in, a big, heavy surprise will be waiting for him on this side.

But the intruder uses a key that works.

I swallow a dry lump in my throat and quietly take my position by the door, ready to attack. When it flies open, I swing the pan with all my might.

“Fuck!” the person yells and grabs the pan from my hands.

I blindly jump on him, attempting to claw his eyes out. The man is so tall, I have to keep jumping to reach them. He must have dropped the pan because it hits the floor with a loudbang.

“Jesus fuck, stop,” he yells, trying to hold my arms still. “Leila, stop!”

He knows my name.

So what? The other one knows it too.

“Leila!” He gets ahold of my shoulders and shakes them.

And only then do I see the person in front of me. Stephan.Archie.

“Fuck,” I say and jump off. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?” He eyes me warily, eyeing the pan on the floor.

“Yeah, sorry.” I glance at him and see him rotating his right shoulder with a wince. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you.”

His eyes twinkle with humor. “You have a mean hook.”

“The pan does.” I smile weakly.

“That it does.” Then he looks from me to the kitchen. The whole place is tiny. “What are you doing here?”

“Me?” I step backward, looking offended. “What am I doing here?”

“Yes, you,” he repeats, not getting my sarcasm.

“I’m staying at my brother’s vacation home for a few days.” I pop a hip and fold my hands across my chest. “And what areyoudoing in here?”

“I am staying in my vacation home that I bought from your brother two months ago.” He quirks a brow.

Oh shit.

“Ah-ha. Sure.” I roll my eyes, knowing I’m in deep shit. “And why haven’t you changed the locks if you own the place, huh?”

“Because I didn’t know someone would want to steal something here.” He looks around pointedly. “And I didn’t expect an intruder.” His dark brow quirks up.

Embarrassment creeps up my neck and settles on my cheeks, making me look like a big carrot, I’m sure. Quite often, red hair and skin that’s too white can be a punishment.