The man took two steps back, holding up his palms. “No need to be afraid. My name’s Sam Turner, and you’re inside my guesthouse at Sugar Maple Farm.”
Did he slip me a roofie and kidnap me? Her thoughts careened against the inside of her skull like horrified marbles. He didn’t look like a kidnapper! But how was she supposed to know what kidnappers looked like?
“As far as I can tell, you broke in, then decided to spend the night.” He spoke with what sounded like a British accent. Moving slowly, he slid his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “When I saw your car this morning, I came to investigate. You’re not hurt as far as I can tell.”
Perish! What! No. She hadn’t broken into this person’s guesthouse, then . . . slept here.
Had she?
She’d been driving to her parents’ house last night. She’d been stressed and anxious about the magnitude of her workload. She hadn’t been able to face the prospect of confronting her parents about the letter on top of all that. So she’d pulled over to the side of the road out in the country.
With a pang, she remembered reaching for her tin of pills. She’d reclined the driver’s seat and turned up her car’s sound system, letting hip-hop wash over her. She’d only intended to take a little break and get her head straight before continuing on.
Except . . . She vaguely recalled admiring the way the bronze sunset illuminated a quaint little white cottage set far back from the road. The cottage nestled into a meadow above a pond, hills forming its backdrop. Postcard perfect.
After that, she could only latch on to hazy recollections. Parking before the cottage. Brushing a fingertip over a morning glory vine. Opening a door that squeaked. Oh no . . .
Despite its outward cuteness, she could now see that the cottage’s interior—just one large room and a bathroom—was not at all her style. She valued security and comfort. This structure was unprotected except by a doorknob lock, and empty, minus the bed.
Genevieve glanced down. Was the bed covered with . . . a jumble of her own clothing? A particularly colorful bra was on embarrassing display. Her familiar pillow bore her head’s indention. She had her robe on backward.
No one but her would know she couldn’t sleep unless she slept on her own pillow, so no one but her would have bothered to bring it inside. Also, the fact that she had her robe on backward had her fingerprints all over it. She often slipped this robe on just this way when chilly.
How very, very far she’d fallen.
While not in her right mind, she’d spent the night in a stranger’s cottage. She had no one in the world to blame for her stupidity but herself.
In a bid to inject a sense of normalcy into the situation, Genevieve scooted to the edge of the bed and swung her feet to the floor. She still wore yesterday’s clothing, including gray socks decorated with the words I’m complicated, thank you very much.
As she stood and wrestled out of her wrong-way robe, it occurred to her that normalcy and this situation were mutually exclusive. Nonetheless, her pride commanded her to save face.
“I’m Genevieve Woodward.” She extended her hand.
Guardedly, he shook it. He did not reply.
“Well then.” Her mouth felt like cotton and dizziness sloshed inside her, but she drew herself tall. Smoothing the turquoise print blouse she’d paired with skinny jeans, she angled her head up because Sam was so much taller than she was. “Just so you know, I don’t usually sleep in homes that don’t belong to me.” She glued a smile to her lips.
Instead of smiling back, he considered her with frank seriousness. He had a fantastic body. Army green T-shirt, jeans, weather-beaten lace-up work boots. He kept his short brown hair shaved on the sides. His nose was a fraction too long, his eyes creased in a way that made them look melancholy. His teeth were straight, but not orthodontically straight. His faintly imperfect masculine features added up to an undeniably appealing face.
People usually responded well to her. But Sam’s pale green eyes, which struck a contrast against his slightly olive skin tone, transmitted no warmth whatsoever.
“Care to tell me why you slept here?” he asked.
“I . . .” She worked to invent a fairy tale he’d believe. “I was on my way to my parents’ house in Misty River last night. I’d been on the road for hours and was tired. Scary tired. So tired I couldn’t keep my head up.”
He said nothing.
“So I pulled over. Near here, I guess.” She gestured toward the road.
“And?”
“I didn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel and injure anyone, so I decided to grab a quick rest.”
“In a vacant building?”
“Yes.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’m very sorry. Obviously, I was so sleepy that I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“The box of pills I found in your purse didn’t have anything to do with it?”
Shock immobilized her. “You . . . looked through my purse?”
“Yes. I couldn’t wake you and wanted to know what I was dealing with.”
Her purse was private. She couldn’t say that to him, however. For one thing, she was too polite to do so. For another, he’d simply respond by saying that his cottage was private, too. “My doctor prescribed those pills for pain.”
“What kind of pain?”
She knelt and pulled up the hem of her jeans to reveal the scar marking her outer right ankle. “Ankle surgery pain.”
“How long ago did you bust up your ankle?”
A blush bloomed on her cheeks. “A while.”
“How long is a while?”
She straightened. “A year.”
“And you’re still taking OxyContin for pain?”
“I am, yes.” Only one other person knew about her pills. And now, him. He knew.
He regarded her the way a teacher would a student who’d just told him she’d been too busy riding unicorns to finish her homework.
This was mortifying! How could this purse-snooping man with the alluring face and zero sympathy have uncovered her secret so suddenly and so thoroughly?
“Is your father the DA?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Do he and your mom know?”
She flinched. My parents. Heaven help her, they’d been expecting her to arrive last night and were probably frantic with worry. She was a terrible, terrible human being. She yanked her phone from her purse and saw that she had twelve missed calls and twenty-three text messages.
Thrusting her phone into her back pocket, she began tossing armloads of clothing into her suitcase. “Are you asking if my parents know that I slept here last night? Because unfortunately, the answer’s no.”
“I’m asking if they know about your prescription drug habit.”
She stilled momentarily, then resumed packing with even more gusto. “I don’t have a prescription drug habit.” She zipped the suitcase and wedged her feet into her boots.
“What kind of work do you do, Genevieve?”
“I’m an author and speaker.”
“An author of what?”
She stuck her pillow under her arm and faced him. “Bible studies.”
His brows lifted.
“I apologize for sleeping in your cottage last night,” she said. “I’m more than happy to pay you to cover any expenses.”