Page 7

7

Ziggy

Sleeping is impossible.

One, it’s hot and the air conditioning is good, but it just can’t keep up with the early August heat.

Two, I’ve been eating a mostly potato diet, and while I’m keeping more of my meals down, I’m having a bad morning sickness day.

Three, I finally broke and agreed to let my stepdad hire me to work in the office for the Pounders, his rugby team, until after the baby’s born.

Four, I accidentally heard that Abby Nora was supposed to be induced today, and I can’t stop wondering if she’s had the baby yet and if I’ll hear about it from my mom, who will definitely hear about it in the neighborhood, and when I’ll finally have to tell her that Abby Nora and I aren’t friends anymore.

And five, every time I close my eyes, I picture Holt with a broken neck on a lacrosse field, or mangled in a car accident on the autobahn, or kidnapped by someone for some reason.

And that’s the current life problem that my overactive brain is dedicating the most energy to.

None of my texts to Holt in the past day and a half show as read.

It’s not like European cell towers are down. I’ve been texting with Francesca regularly.

Maybe he lost his phone and hasn’t gotten a new one yet or he had to get an all-new number because he was replacing a phone in Europe and he didn’t have my number saved and his cloud back-up glitched.

Been there myself, unfortunately.

Also, pregnancy hormones suck.

If I’m this worried about a man I barely know, how am I going to react when it’s my own baby who doesn’t answer me when I call for them in the house? Or text me back fast enough when they’re on the bus home from school? Or when they get a driver’s license and miss curfew? Or when they leave for college and don’t call at all for weeks on end, then move to Europe?

Breathe, Ziggy. Breathe .

Is this level of anxiety normal in pregnancy?

Or is this level of anxiety normal when the man you’re house- and dog-sitting for ghosts you?

I’m tossing and turning long after midnight when Jessica growls low and deep from her doggy bed on the floor beside me. I moved her into the bedroom with me after she wouldn’t stop whining outside the door the first night.

“What’s wrong?” I whisper to her.

She growls again.

I grab my phone and flip on the flashlight .

Her little ears are back flat, and she’s glaring at my bedroom door.

Is it my bedroom door?

Or is it the crooked closet doors beside the bedroom door? I usually shut them. Forgot to close them tonight, apparently.

And that’s when I hear it.

Noise.

Downstairs.

Someone’s in the house.

Jessica leaps to her short little legs, barks like she’s a German Shepherd, and takes off for the door, snarling all the way.

“ Jessica! ” I whisper-shriek. “Come back!”

Call someone.

I need to call someone.

Her ferocious bark echoes in the stairwell.

Phone.

Call.

I know how my phone works.

It’s a thing where I push buttons.

But it won’t turn on.

It won’t turn on .

Why won’t it—oh.

Upside down.

It doesn’t turn on when it’s upside down.

Bathroom. Closet. Hide.

Which one?

Jessica’s still barking.

Oh my god.

What if they hurt the dog?

What if they hurt the dog?

“Get off , you mangy asshole,” a voice says downstairs. “Christ on a karaoke machine, why aren’t you in your goddamn crate?”

Jessica’s still growling, but the voice makes me stop.

I can hear it saying okay in my head.

“ Holt ?” I shriek.

“Fuck me,” he mutters back.

Maybe not mutters .

If he were muttering, I couldn’t hear him.

But what in the holy hell is he doing here? He’s not supposed to be here for another three weeks.

I fumble my phone upright and open it to the phone app, ready to call for help if this isn’t Holt, if it’s someone who sounds like him and knows Jessica was supposed to be sleeping in a crate, and I creep to the bedroom door. The bedroom that Holt told me to use—the primary suite—is at the top of the landing, so I can flip on the lights and peer out, then duck back into my room if I have to.

My heart is trying to outpace a cheetah racing after a gazelle. My hands are shaking. My stomach hurts like I’m going to hurl.

I flip the light switch, lean out just far enough to look down the steps, and my racing heart skids to a full and complete stop, which makes my stomach flip inside out too.

That’s definitely Holt.

Same dark hair. Same broody, hooded eyes. Same chin dimple.

The thing that’s different?

The crutches under his armpits and the boot on his lower right leg.

I gape for half a second, a whirlwind of emotions flooding me. “What happened? ”

He boosts himself up a single stair. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

“You didn’t call. Or text.”

“Been busy.”

“ Airplanes have basic text service .” Deep breaths. Deep breaths .

He doesn’t answer while he uses the crutches to get up one more stair while Jessica trails him, still growling.

My heart won’t stop pounding. “I thought someone was breaking into the house in the middle of the night.”

“Just me.”

I swear in Italian and add, “ I didn’t fucking know that .”

He eyes me as he hits the fourth stair.

It’s not a cautious enough look. It’s more why do I have to deal with the crazy-ass woman in the middle of the night?

Why?

Because I spent the majority of the past seven years living, working, and breathing in a space where I was never alone. Even when there was someone unpleasant around, there would be someone else not unpleasant nearby.

Being alone is different, and my mind doesn’t like the bumps in the night.

Unusual sounds don’t mix well with pregnancy hormones either.

So my brain is overreacting to a lot of things.

“Good girl, Jessica,” I say.

And my voice cracks.

My damn voice cracks.

I’ve cried a lot in the past three months. I sobbed when I hung up the phone after dialing in to watch Abby Nora’s baby shower. I cried in the damn bar I went to.

I cried in the middle of the one-night stand with a random Italian guy who got me pregnant behind a Greek bar.

I cried when I found out I was pregnant.

I cried when I got morning sickness too bad to finish out my last contract on the cruise ship.

I cried when I boarded the plane to come home. I cried when I told my parents why I was home. I cried after I lost my first job here.

But I’ll be damned if I cry over someone who didn’t have the freaking human decency to tell me he was coming back three weeks early—in the middle of the night—like he just forgot he had someone living in his house.

And there’s the caution I was looking for.

Unfortunately, it’s coming with a side of yep, gonna have to deal with this .

I suck in a breath and order the damn hormones to get a grip. I am not crying over this man . Not in fury that he scared me. Not in relief that he’s okay. Not in aggravation that I’m drowning in every emotion known to humankind all at once.

“They say dogs are good judges of character. And you know what? I get it now. I get why she doesn’t like you. Because you’re an asshole. Welcome home, Holt. I hope your bed is lumpy and that your leg hurts like a bitch.”

Well.

That wasn’t like me.

But for two glorious seconds, it feels wonderful.

Right up until I realize I’ve slammed the door and left Jessica outside my room.

Which is quickly followed by the realization that if he’s back, I need to find a new place to stay.

Again.

Fuck .

I jerk the door open.

He’s made it almost to the top of the steps, which means he’s almost at eye level. “You done?”

“No, I’m not done. For your information, I’m not moving out. We have a signed agreement that I’m staying here for another three weeks, so I’m fucking staying here for another three weeks. And I’m taking your dog with me when I leave because she deserves better. Jessica. Go to bed. Good girl. Who’s a good girl? Yes, Jessica’s a good girl. Good Jessica.”

The dog lumbers into my room, and I shut the door again.

But it’s not enough.

How dare he?

Is there anyone who wouldn’t be terrified out of their minds at hearing someone breaking into their house in the middle of the night?

He should’ve told me he was coming.

And he didn’t.

I fling the door open to find him right outside my bedroom.

Motherfucker. Does this door have a lock? It’d better have a lock.

“And one last thing.” I glare up at him with every ounce of fury that I have inside me. “Don’t touch my air fryer.”

This time, I slam the door when I shut it.

Jessica snorts.

God dammit .

No lock.

Why doesn’t this bedroom door have a lock?

I can’t stay here.

There’s no lock.

A heavy sigh drifts through the door .

Awesome.

It’s not thick enough to block out the sound of a freaking sigh .

And I have to work tomorrow.

“I won’t touch your fucking air fryer,” he mutters.

The crutches clomp on the floor.

One clomp. Two clomps. Three clomps. Four clomps.

The hinges on his bedroom door creak.

There’s a stifled motherfucker that I can only imagine is from finding half of the hallway bathroom supplies scattered over his bedroom floor, or possibly from the oversize boxes holding a new sink and a toilet and new tile for the bathroom floor, plus buckets with tools and grout and other stuff, since the plumber and I decided that if we didn’t hear otherwise, he’d start on fixing and renovating the bathroom this weekend.

Apparently he has Holt’s credit card number on file.

And also, he said he likes him well enough that he’d do this one for free if the credit card failed.

Guilt smacks me between the eyeballs.

Maybe Holt did lose his phone.

But if he did, he could’ve fucking said so .

Like a normal human being who can communicate with words when he scares the ever-loving shit out of the woman staying in his house— at his invitation —and his freaking dog too.

Jessica whimpers and pushes her body against my leg. I’m still standing at the door, ready to fight back if he tries to get in.

And there it is?—

Clomp.

Clomp .

Clomp.

And a knock.

“Go away,” I say. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“I need to take a piss.”

The right thing to do is to let him into my bedroom to use the bathroom. He gave me the best bedroom in the house. I’ve had a lovely three weeks here. He’s injured.

But logic and being scared shitless aren’t mixing well. “You should’ve thought of that before you were the kind of asshole who didn’t tell your house sitter you were coming home in the middle of the damn night.”

Jessica snorts in agreement.

“Use the bathroom downstairs,” I add.

He doesn’t answer.

And I do my damn best to not feel bad when I hear the clomps of his crutches on the stairs.

Nope.

I won’t feel bad.

He did this to himself.

A decent person would’ve called or texted.

He did neither.

He can touch grass. Preferably grass that his dog has recently peed on.

Jessica makes a muffled snort that I’ve come to think of as her it’s okay, Ziggy, I’m here for you snuffle.

The clomping stops, or at least drifts far enough away that I can’t hear it anymore.

I do hear the downstairs bathroom door shut.

At least, I think that’s the downstairs bathroom door. It’s right under my bedroom. The sound came from the right place.

Guilt hits me again .

There’s a bedroom downstairs. It’s locked, so I shouldn’t know it’s a bedroom, but it’s beneath the hall bathroom and the lock was easy enough to pop. I wanted to make sure there wasn’t water leaking onto the ceiling down there.

It looked comfortable. Big bed. White bedding. Cozy blue chair in the corner. Pictures of Holt with a slightly smaller man who looked just like him, and who I assume was his brother. In one picture, they were on a fishing boat holding up matching fish. There was another with Holt in a team jersey, sweaty and hot with his arm wrapped around his brother with crowded stands in the background.

And there were no water stains on the ceiling, so I made myself leave and lock the door again behind me.

Like he left it.

I squeeze my eyes shut briefly.

This is a freaking disaster.

My legs tingle when I move away from the door to walk back to the bed.

My heart is still pounding. My stomach is trying to eat itself, so I pull out a sleeve of crackers that I keep in the nightstand, then sit at the edge of the bed eating them until I think I might be able to at least doze.

Definitely not sleep.

Not tonight.

Also—I have to find a new place to stay for another few weeks.

Dammit.