Ignite (Wildwood 1)

Frowning, West stood and gathered up everyone’s empty plates and crumpled napkins without asking, taking it all into the kitchen and dumping it in the trash. Lane followed him inside, Holden on his heels, the both of them going for the fridge so they could each grab another beer.

“Give us the tour,” Lane practically commanded after he shut the refrigerator door, twisting the cap off the beer he held and tossing it in the garbage can.

West gritted his teeth and did exactly that, hustling them through his new place. The condo was small so the tour lasted approximately thirty seconds, and that worked for him. He suddenly wanted his brothers out of there. Fast.

He wanted to be alone.

“Harper used to live here,” Holden said conversationally as he glanced around the master bedroom, swigging from his beer bottle.

West frowned and turned to look at his brother. “She did?” Well, that didn’t really surprise him considering her grandmother owned the place. But he didn’t like that Holden knew this, and happened to mention that particular fact while they were in the bedroom, which West could only assume used to be Harper’s old bedroom.

West’s gaze slid to the bed. Had she slept there? Most likely. And why did that give him a weird, hot twist in his stomach?

“Yeah,” Holden said with a nod. “Before she moved in with her boyfriend.”

West was seriously glad he hadn’t been drinking something when Holden made that statement. He probably would’ve spit out his beer. Harper had a live-in boyfriend? For real?

“Who’s her boyfriend?” He was surprised his voice sounded so neutral, so normal. Deep inside that hot twist turned into a full-on painful cramp.

“Roger Bowman,” Lane said, stopping to stand in the doorway. West turned to look at him, wanting to hear more yet not wanting any details about Harper’s love life with someone else. He didn’t like thinking of her with any other guy.

Meaning he was a selfish asshole.

“He moved here right after you left,” Lane explained. “Runs his own accounting firm.”

An accountant. Of course Harper had found herself a stable, quiet nerd—er, numbers—man. He couldn’t help but wonder if good ol’ Roger Bowman wore a pocket protector. Glasses maybe? Short-sleeved button-up shirts with a tie that looked like it was strangling him?

Okay, now he was just being a judgmental asshole.

“That’s great,” West said with a nod, hating the catch in his throat. “Harper deserves nothing but happiness.”

And he meant every last word.

THE MOMENT HARPER pulled into the driveway of the small cottage she shared with Roger she knew something wasn’t right.

She shifted into park and turned off the engine of her Corolla, staring at the house as she listened to the engine tick in the otherwise quiet. It was past eight, and even though the sky was staying lighter later and later as the official start of summer drew closer, there was usually at least one lamp blazing from within the house.

But every window was eerily dark, despite Roger’s car parked in the driveway right next to hers. They didn’t use the garage because it was too full of Roger’s crap, or um, stuff. He was a collector of every video game action figure known to man, from what Harper could see. She understood collections. Her mother and grandmother had been obsessed with Beanie Babies years ago when she was a kid, and they’d done everything humanly possible to grow their collection, always dragging Harper along with them.

Harper prided herself on being a very understanding person, even though that might’ve meant she was also a very boring person. But damn it, people didn’t understand enough most of the time—all anyone usually wanted was to be heard. Acknowledged. She was a good listener. A soother, if there was such a thing. And that was what drew her to Roger in the first place. He was a sensitive soul. Sweet and caring and quiet. Smart. So smart he made her feel dumb sometimes, though he never meant to.

Frowning, she grabbed her shopping bag from her earlier excursion at the supermarket and exited the car, heading toward the front door. Her steps were brisk, her sandals slapping across the sidewalk as she hurried to get into the warm house. It might have been close to summer, but the air still turned cold quick, considering Wildwood’s high elevation. She wrapped her fingers around the cool metal door handle, turning it, fully expecting it to be unlocked, but it wasn’t.

Huh.

She pulled her keys out of her purse and unlocked the door, bursting in with a soft hello that seemed to echo throughout the tiny house. She set her purse on the table right beside the front door and went into the dark kitchen, putting the few items she’d picked up at the supermarket away in the pantry.

Still no sign of Roger.

Double huh.

Slowly she walked through the house, down the hall toward their bedroom. The door was shut. An uneasy feeling slid down her spine, settling low in her stomach, making it churn. With shaking fingers she reached out, grabbed hold of the doorknob and turned it.

The door creaked open and she peeked her head around it, wincing in preparation for what would most likely be some sort of devastating, horrible image she’d never be able to scrub from her brain no matter how hard she tried. Roger writhing around on their bed with an unknown woman. Or perhaps the woman would be straddling Roger, naked and riding him for all he’s worth.

Harper frowned. Roger had never been a big fan of her on top. They always did it missionary style. Lately they hadn’t been doing it much at all . . .

Her gaze landed on the bed, her shoulders stiff, breath lodged in her throat, fully prepared for what she might see. But there was no woman writhing around with Roger on their bed, locked in a passionate embrace. And there certainly wasn’t a woman riding her boyfriend for all he was worth. Instead, it was only Roger, lying on his side in the middle of the queen-size bed, practically curled into a ball, sleeping soundly.