She snored softly.
“It’s not even a full moon,” he grumbled and sighed. He reached over and gave her a little shake. “Penelope.”
Nothing.
He stared at her then dropped his head back on his headrest, considering the best option now. He could call her cousins, the three Carter sisters who owned Three Chicks Brewery—a local craft brewery that was looking for its big break getting their locally famous beer, Foxy Diva distributed within North America—to find out where Penelope was staying. But somehow, that felt like the wrong move. The other choice was taking her to the station’s drunk tank, but that wasn’t quite right either.
“Let’s just hope your trouble doesn’t become my trouble,” he told her before putting the car in drive.
Chapter Two
Everything hurt when Penelope woke the next morning. Her throat felt like sandpaper, her tongue lay dry in her mouth. Even her eyeballs burned. “Ugh. Bad shots. Bad, bad shots.” It took an embarrassing amount of time for her to realize she wasn’t in her bedroom at her cousins’ house, but she was in a masculine bedroom with plain gray painted walls and big, dark wood furniture filling up the space. She slowly pushed up to sitting, taking a quick inventory of herself. Her sweater and leggings from last night were in place. Beside her, she found a glass of water and a note that read: Drink Me. Set next to th
e water were two painkillers and another note that read: Don’t Forget Us! She did as instructed and downed both quickly, her head thumping like elephants were throwing a party inside of her skull.
The water hit her tongue first, a sweet relief, followed by her stomach clenching, reminding her that she was twenty-seven years old, not twenty-one, and shots were a terrible idea. Very, very bad idea. She returned the glass of water to the side table, when a low growl snapped her focus to the end of the bed.
There sat an orange cat that obviously ate more than he exercised. His brow was a tad darker than the rest of his face, giving him a scowl. “Hi, kitty,” she said. “I’m a nice human. Promise.”
The cat hissed, lurched forward, and swatted at her.
Penelope screamed, jumped on her pillows, trying to climb onto the headboard. The cat ended up directly in front of her, hissing and showing teeth. “Help,” she screamed. “Help. It’s going to kill me!”
Loud footsteps thundered up an obvious staircase and then drew closer. A beat later, the bedroom door whisked open. Penelope was momentarily stunned by who entered the bedroom: the manly six-foot-two, scruffy-bearded, dark brown-haired man that had stolen her heart when she was seventeen years old. The man who she compared every man to. The one that made it impossible to get serious with anyone because everyone else seemed flawed against Darryl Wilson.
When her gaze connected with his amber eyes, memories hit her in rapid succession. Singing Christmas songs at the top of her lungs…skating on the fountain…sloppily flirting with him… Dear God! Her cheeks burned, and suddenly the cat wasn’t her biggest threat.
“Ebenezer, no!” Darryl snapped, charging into the room, scooping the cat up, who hissed, bit, then clawed his arm. “One sec,” he said through gritted teeth before leaving the room.
In his place sat the cutest bloodhound, perched on the ground, his tongue wagging out the side of his mouth.
Penelope inhaled sharply as her lungs were desperate for air. On the end table, she noticed her cell phone and the little light beeping blue. She grabbed her phone, and slid down the headboard to land back onto the bed. Then she did what any sane woman would do—she hid under the duvet, hoping to God this was some terrible dream and soon she’d wake up.
Though when she unlocked her phone and saw the text message, she knew this morning was too messy to be anything else but real life. Messy was kinda her thing. In her dreams, she was so quiet and reserved, but in the real world, not so much.
Even though she knew the text message from the youngest Carter sister, Maisie, and would likely suck, she opened the message, hoping for the best. Then promptly cringed.
You better be dead. Okay, no, I hope you’re not dead, but if you are alive, Clara is going to kill you. Please text. Everyone is worried about where you are.
“Shit,” Penelope breathed, under her tent of peace that she never wanted to leave. She tried, like really, really tried not worry her family. Last night had definitely been a low point. Trying to fix her snafu, she texted back: I’m so sorry for worrying everyone. My phone died. Sometimes little lies helped fix truths that would only end in long discussions she didn’t want to have. I’ll be home soon. Promise. P.S. Tell Clara I’ll bring her pie.
Pie fixed everything in the Carter household. Especially apple.
A creak of the floorboards, and Penelope froze.
“Not a very good hiding spot,” Darryl said, amusement heavy in his low—ridiculously seductive—voice.
Penelope considered what he’d do if she didn’t come out. Would he just leave? Then could she sneak out?
Dammit, he was a cop. He’d wait her out.
She slowly lowered the blanket, finding him leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across his wide chest and black T-shirt. Sweet Jesus. He looked even sexier this morning than when he was twenty years old. He belonged on a wilderness advertisement for some cologne that made women rip their panties off and throw them at him. And, like every elusive wilderness adventure hero, his expression was one hundred percent unreadable.
“Sorry about the cat,” he said, eventually breaking the silence. “He’s an asshole most days.”
She snorted a laugh. “Really? He seemed so friendly.”
The side of his sculpted lips, that she recalled seemed to be made for hot kisses, curved up. Damn. She was in so much trouble. She cleared her throat and dared to ask, “What happened last night?”