“What the fuck?”
Reeling, and cold, so very cold, Kinsley whirled around to find Rhett standing in the doorway.
He surveyed the damage, eyes wild. “I’ve got the back,” he growled at Boone, then rushed forward with his weapon in his hand. He vanished into the back room a second later.
“Do not move from this spot,” Boone snapped, his weapon now in his hand too, while he took off toward the bathrooms.
My bar.
Kinsley scanned every piece of broken wood, every shard of glass, and her breakfast did terrible things in her stomach. Her skin flushed red-hot. Sweat coated her flesh.
Oh no.
She quickly looked left and right then dove toward the garbage can, her hand burning on something as she hurled her guts out.
* * *
Rhett had cleared the back room and Kinsley’s office before he found the entry point. The back door was wide open. He looked at her security system on the wall by the door, finding it had been turned off. Whoever broke into her bar obviously had the equipment and the skill to disable the alarm and open the door, or this was an inside job. Rhett didn’t like either of those possibilities.
He ground his teeth as he returned to the main bar, then breathed past the clenching of his muscles as he found Kinsley throwing up into the garbage can by the front door. If that reaction was the result of stress, rather than morning sickness, someone would pay.
Rhett decided to stay back to give her privacy, when Boone strode out from the women’s washroom. He wove his way around the broken furniture, his face a mask of controlled rage. “Clear.”
“In the back too,” Rhett confirmed, reholstering his weapon. “Any idea what happened here?”
Boone tucked his weapon away as well. “Not a fucking clue. We just walked through the door seconds before you did.”
A feeling pulsed through Rhett that he couldn’t quite identify. Urgent, wary, whatever it was, he didn’t like it. His gaze fell on Kinsley again, and he felt a deeper lick of fury course through his veins as he spotted blood sliding down the side of the garbage can from her hand.
“We need to get the team in here,” Boone said.
Rhett glanced back at him with a nod then gestured Boone toward the door. “Give me fifteen before you call them in.”
Boone’s gaze turned probing before he eventually nodded, with what Rhett thought looked close to approval on his face. “If you need more time, let me know.” He gave Kinsley one last look then headed for the door.
Rhett had barely slept, and he’d ended up going for a run in the middle of the night. He had no idea what steps to take forward, but he’d decided this morning that talking to Kinsley was a good start. He waited for her to stand up before he drew closer to her. She reached down to tie up the garbage bag, but he quickly intervened, gently pushing her hands away. “I’ll get that. You need water.”
She slowly looked up at him with surprise in her eyes, which admittedly, only made him feel more like shit. She thought the very worst of him, thought him unable to offer a gentle hand when needed. “I need crackers,” she said.
“You got those in the back?”
She nodded, guarded in the way she watched him.
“Let’s get those,” he offered, reaching for a few napkins by the cash register. “And we can deal with the cut on your hand too.”
She glanced down, her eyes going wide. “Oh, shit.” She quickly accepted the napkins, placing them against her wound.
He tied the garbage bag then pulled it from the can. She followed him into the back room, and he headed out the back door, where he knew the Dumpsters were for all three shops that belonged to Kinsley, Peyton, and Remy. He tossed the bag inside the Dumpster then glanced up, spotting the security camera. He needed to see what was on there, but first, he needed to fix leaving last night in the way that he did. When he returned inside, he found Kinsley at the metal kitchen sink, water running over the cut on her hand.
“I must have cut myself on a piece of glass when I dove for the garbage can,” she explained.
“Let me take a look.” He held her hand under the light, noticing she’d grabbed a first aid kit and left it on the metal table. His blood heated as he got close to her, electricity brushing across his flesh as those fiery eyes held his intently. “You get sick like that often?”
She nodded, as breathless as him. “At really weird unexpected times too.”
He acknowledged that with a nod. Her breath hitched when he took her soft hand in his callused ones to examine the wound, and heat spiraled through him. “It doesn’t need stitches.” Using his free hand, he patted the table. “Let me clean it up.”
“Where did Boone go?” she asked, pulling her hand from his and inching closer to the table.