Bargaining with the Bride (Honeybrook Love, Inc. 1)

Unmistakably, it was the sound of barking. She sat bolt upright in her bed, breath coming in shallow bursts. How the hell had a dog gotten into her house? How big could it be? How ferocious?

Why couldn’t it have been a robber or some sort of crazed salesperson? Anything, anything other than a dog. She slowed her breathing and tried to find her phone. The barking was distant, at least. That would give her some time, even if she felt like she was in the part of the horror movie where everyone in the audience is screaming for the hero not to walk through that door.

Grappling through the sheets, she felt for the cool, glass square that was her smartphone. With a sigh of relief, she pressed the power button, only to be greeted by…nothing. At all. A black screen stared back at her as she pressed the button over and over again, hoping for a miraculously different result.

Nothing.

She couldn't call animal control, or any of her neighbors. Her charger was in the living room, but who knew if she'd be alive by the time she got there if Cujo was on the prowl.

Then again, what choice did she have? She eased into the hall, looking before she went as though she were crossing the street. All clear.

The stairs creaked as she tip toed down them, but the barking didn't get closer or louder. A tiny triumph. That was something.

Reaching the bottom of the steps, she took a quick survey of her surroundings. The barking was coming from the far room, the room where Lance used to pretend to be dying. Now that she was in the living room, there was a good bit of space to work with.

The phone cord was so close, glowing on her bay window sill like the golden monkey in the temple of doom. She darted for it, her salvation.

When it was finally in her hands, she could have cried from relief.

That was, until she saw that she was only holding half the cord. The other half was still connected to the wall, frayed where the wire had been chewed through.

Th

en she felt like crying for an entirely different reason.

Well, at least it had been a good life. There was nothing left to do but take a deep breath and meet the reaper now. So long, farewell, alvederzane, good-bye.

She inhaled once, then again, trying her hardest not to hyperventilate, and with a resignation only akin to the end of epic movies, she started striding cautiously toward her kitchen, marching into the forbidden forest to face Voldemort.

A rush of air swept past her bare leg as her foot crossed the threshold, and she stepped back, but it was too late. A booming male voice shouted, "Tesla, no!"

Tiny talons clawed at her legs, hopping up and landing on her calves. She inched away, but the pug chased her, apparently thinking she was luring him into a game. Her voice caught in her throat and she looked around for the male voice, only to find Garret standing in front of her stove, pan in hand, watching as the pug chased her.

She edged into the kitchen and leapt onto a kitchen chair to avoid the scratching. She batted the beast away with her foot, but it continued to pursue her, shrieking its barks between ragged, congested-sounding breaths.

"Sorry, I've got him," Garret slid open the glass doors leading to her meager back yard and the little wrinkly-faced, snub-nosed monster trotted out to loose his havoc upon nature. It was only when she heard the light thud of the door sliding closed that she finally released a measured breath.

She glanced from Garret to her stool and then back again. What was the best way to rectify the sheer humiliation of this? Try to get him to play “the floor is lava?” That would probably be easier than try to explain why she was a grown woman with a mortal fear of a pint-sized pug.

Then again, maybe she wasn’t the one with the explaining to do. Why the hell was Garret here? With his dog? On a Saturday morning, no less. In her house. With no warning.

She crossed one leg over the other, all too aware of how scant her pajamas were. In a few minutes, she’d make an excuse to go upstairs and change out of her boy shorts and tank top, but for right now she had a few mysteries to unravel.

For example, her stuff seemed to have gained new friends overnight. Foreign spatulas and knife sets rested on her counter tops. There was an apron slung over the pantry door. Like more than one person lived there. Come to think of it, hadn't she spied a TV in her living room?

The whole set-up was so foreign, she had trouble trying to decide what to ask first, but then something on the stove began to sizzle and the question was out of her mouth before she’d thought it through. "So, uh, what are you making?" It was far from the first thing on her mind, but the briny smell floating all around her would not be ignored.

Garret’s brow crinkled for a minute, but then his features quickly returned to normal before he answered her—thin, straight line of a mouth, thoughtful stare and all.

"Bacon's in the oven. Scrambled eggs on the stove. Biscuits are in a basket near the sink. Oh, and I made a pot of coffee."

"I only have a single cup—"

"But I have a pot. It's under the plate cabinet."

She glanced toward the counter nearest the door, and there it was. A full pot of fresh coffee.

Things were just getting weirder and weirder by the second.