Page 10 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer (Summers in Seaside)

ten

. . .

Elle

It’s late.

I can’t sleep. Again.

Insomnia’s a bitch. A dirty, cunty bitch.

It started when Noah left. Okay, that’s not entirely true—I had sleep issues when I was younger too. But once I met Noah, they all went away. When he was in bed next to me, I slept like the dead. And tonight, I can’t even smoke enough pot to drug my brain into thinking it’s just a tiny bit dead.

And poor Jake. Didn’t deserve to get drop-kicked out of my love life tonight. But let’s face it—he was never Noah. Nobody is. That’s the problem.

The pad of my thumb runs over the jagged edge of a nail I broke gardening today.

I need to remember to file it before I flail around and cut myself.

Noah used to joke he was going to find grown-size baby mittens for me—the only adult he knew who could cut herself with her own nails just like a baby.

I sigh, ready to head back inside, when something catches my eye.

Someone creeping through the backyard of the Jenkins’ place.

From my deck, there’s not an inch of their yard I can’t see. Normally, unspoken rule says no spying, but this is different. Maybe Celeste is sneaking a boyfriend into the house.

The thought makes me chuckle; the girl gives them a run for their money for sure.

Except—wait. The Jenkins are supposed to be in Cabo this week. So, the boyfriend could use the front door. Which means no one should be creeping around back there.

Celeste might be inside that house. Alone.

And suddenly, this isn’t neighborhood gossip or idle curiosity. This is a nineteen-year-old girl who could be in danger.

My stomach knots as the shadowy figure crouches near her window.

Fuck.

I yank on Noah’s old flannel, silk sleep shorts, shove my feet into Chucks, and slip out my back gate.

It isn’t until I’m halfway down the path that I realize how stupid I’m being.

I don’t have a weapon. I’m not law enforcement.

There are no tricks up my sleeve to defend myself or apprehend someone.

I didn’t even bring my cell phone with me.

I should turn around, call 9-1-1, and be done with it.

But by the time I sprint home and make the call, Doug could already be inside, and if Celeste’s in there…

There’s a reason curiosity kills the cat. Because the dumbass cat should’ve minded its own business.

That’s me. I’m the fucking cat.

But the image of Celeste sleeping while some creepy lurker breaks in won’t leave me. So I keep going. And if she’s in danger, I’ll risk being the fucking cat every damn time.

The Jenkins’ back gate is wide open, like an engraved invitation to disaster. My steps are soft on the sand walkway as I creep closer, ducking behind the gazebo.

This creepy lurker is jimmying the lock on Celeste’s window. And it’s the hardest damn window in the whole house to crack. Idiot. I should know, I’ve helped Celeste do it.

I weave around the gazebo toward the water feature, nearly take myself out on one of Mrs. Jenkins’ unusually large garden gnomes, and crouch. The gnome is my only cover now, its wide-eyed little face staring at me like, really, lady?

Creepy Lurker fumbles and fails, pathetic in his attempt. I’m tempted to offer my assistance, just to put us both out of our misery. Him, for being such a shitty burglar. Me, for standing here in the middle of the night wearing too little clothes watching him.

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. I slap a hand over my mouth.

His head whips around. I freeze; thankful the flannel is navy and blends into the shadows.

Navy. Like Noah’s eyes when he’s turned on. Or when he’s fucking. The man has beautiful eyes. God, can he fuck. My thighs clench.

Abort thoughts, Elle. Abort. You’ve got a burglar to deal with, not a drought to wallow in.

The moon shifts. His face catches the light.

Doug.

Fucking.

Finch.

Of course.

Who else would bumble through a B&E like a drunk raccoon with butterfingers?

My first instinct is to bolt home, call 911, and let the professionals handle it. But Celeste is in there.

If he gets in before anyone shows up…

Heat floods my veins. Protective, furious heat.

So, I do what any irrational, sleep-deprived, overly loyal neighbor would do. I step out from behind the gnome and hiss:

“What the fuck are you doing, Doug?”