Fearless Abby Brooks (ebook reader color screen TXT) 📖

the job? This kind of idiot apparently. With a sigh, I stood, scrubbed my face, and worked on piecing together the rest of the night.

“Oh, God. Kill me now.” In the history of embarrassment, last night stole the show. I’d need to figure out a way to apologize, but my pounding head demanded caffeine in exchange for the safe return of my ability to process thoughts. But more important than my need for coffee was the bladder full of tequila. I waddle-walked into the bathroom, peed, then turned on the faucet to wash my hands.

A loud thump came from downstairs.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

I paused while splashing water on my face and turned off the faucet, drips falling from my nose and chin. Another thump. A bang.

Something was happening down there. A big something.

Was that the scrape of a chair? Holy shit! Was Amelia right the whole time? Was the ghost downstairs moving things around in the kitchen?

I scurried back into my room and swiped my phone off the bedside table as the thumps and bangs continued.

Me: OMG I THINK I HEAR THE GHOST DOWNSTAIRS BUT I MIGHT BE SO HUNGOVER I’M HALLUCINATING!!!!!

Amelia: Why, in the name of all things holy, are you texting me instead of heading down there to investigate???

Amelia: Also, hungover on a Monday?? Lots to talk about chica!

I started to type a response when my phone lit up with a video call. “Get your ass downstairs and take me with you,” Amelia said when I answered. “I need to see your face when you realize I was right all along.” Holding the phone out in front of me as I went, I thumped down the stairs and headed for the kitchen. Halfway through the living room, I caught the scent of coffee.

Two steps later, I realized I didn’t make any.

“I smell coffee,” I hissed. “But Amelia! I haven’t even been downstairs yet!”

My heart pounded as the kitchen came into view.

“I don’t hear anything,” Amelia said. “Do you?”

The room was empty, though it hadn’t been that way long. The chair Amelia freaked out over yesterday had tipped over and the table was slightly askew. Despite the strong smell of coffee, the pot sat empty and unused.

“Look at the chair, Amelia. Look at it!” I held the phone at arm’s length, shaking it in the direction of the upended piece of furniture.

“Turn me around so I can look at you. I need to see your face right now because you’re totally realizing I was right, and you were wrong, and you’re living in a haunted house.”

I wanted to contradict her but, how could I? I heard what I heard and saw what I saw. “Chairs don’t just fall over by themselves.” The words slipped past my lips in a whisper as I turned in a slow circle, skin crawling.

“That’s right, my friend. And coffee doesn’t make itself, either.”

“What’s really weird is there isn’t any. Just the smell.” The hair on the back of my neck stood on end and I had the distinct feeling that someone was watching me. “It’s like the walls have eyes right now. I’ve never felt so exposed.”

Amelia smirked. “That could be because your tank top is crooked and your boob is popping out.”

Chapter Twelve

Alex

That was way too fucking close. With a mess of papers and electronic devices clutched to my chest, I crouched in Evie’s backyard and peered through the massive kitchen window just in time to see her shuffle into the room. Tousled hair. White cotton panties. Phone held out in front of her like a weapon. Crooked tank top with one entire boob spilling out the side. She was adorable. Sexy—in a hot mess kind of way.

And about to see me creeping outside her window like a crazy person.

Talk about hot messes.

I ducked out of sight, then sat right there in the dirt to organize the jumble of papers and the laptop I’d crammed into my hands before dashing out the backdoor. “You knew better,” I muttered as I opened my messenger bag. “You knew Brighton’s advice was shit. Who breaks into their neighbor’s house to hang out in their kitchen without permission?”

Desperate writers on a deadline, that’s who.

Like that excuse made anything better. I mentally fast forwarded to my inevitable arrest.

I’m sorry, officer. The only place I can write is in Evie’s house and I thought I’d help myself to her kitchen because we made out a little last night, but it’s okay because my agent told me to do it.

“You stupid asshole,” I whispered as I smoothed out a few pages of notes and slipped them into my bag. Evie’s voice sounded from inside the house. I pushed onto my hands and knees to peek through the window just in time to see her wrench her tank top back in place. Her eyes were wide and alive and it was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.

Come on, man. This is the kind of psycho shit you write about.

I’d spent last night replaying the evening with Evie, scrutinizing every word, every touch, turning it all round in my head as I tried to make sense of it. Sleep never came, though I eventually did, jerking off while I fantasized about our kiss and that inconsequential silk robe. If only I’d had the visual ammo of this morning’s outfit to add to the pile…

That’s enough, Prescott! Stop it with the crazy, already.

After hours of being awake, I’d tried to write. After a couple more hours of staring at a blank screen, Brighton’s suggestion of using my key sounded perfectly reasonable. Evie was an understanding person, after all, and I did let her eat in my car. I’d convinced myself I’d get a few pages written while she slept, then come clean about why the whole town thought her house was haunted when she woke up.

I’d rationalized the whole thing away by imagining Evie finding me in the morning and the two of us having