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I follow behind him into the mostly dark house. All the lights are off except for the hall light he probably turned on when I woke him with my multiple failed key entries.
He leads me through a small entryway and then a large-sized living room.
A couch and a loveseat make an L shape set up with a flat-screen mounted against the far wall.
I look to my left to see an arched opening into a kitchen and dining room open concept.
Most everything in the house seems dated, besides the appliances in the kitchen and the large screen TV.
There’s certainly no woman’s touch in this house and based on the bland tile colors and late-nineties furniture, I’d say Seven bought this place and filled it with used furniture from a hotel getting rid of their old stuff.
The images from the website that Sheridan sent me don’t match the insides of this house at all. The pictures of a modern vacation home listed on the website with updated furnishings and a completely different layout only further prove Seven’s point that this house isn’t the rental that Sheridan thought she rented me.
I need to call her as soon as possible and hope that she can turn this fraud in to her credit card company for theft and get her money back. The next thing I need to do is get a flight out of here as soon as the airport resumes operations.
I’ll have to call tomorrow and see when they can rebook me. I don’t care about the change fee, I'll pay whatever it takes.
I look down at my phone, hoping to see a text waiting from Daniel. With all the craziness, I almost forgot that he might have texted me back as I was flying. But then I realize that I don’t have any cell reception. There’s not a single bar to signal hope of getting correspondence out to Sheridan or my mother, either. I promised them both that I would call when I got situated in my rental house. The storm must be moving in and blocking the signal.
I quickly type up a text to Sheridan and send it as I follow behind the man who just so happens to be both my savior and my worst nightmare.
I know Sheridan won’t get the text right away, but if reception hits at any point tonight while I’m asleep, it might just be long enough to send her the text.
Brynn: Bad news. The house was a scam. Call your credit card company immediately. Good news. I’m not dead and the owner of the house is letting me stay tonight.
I think about it for a second and decide that just in case I’m wrong about Seven being an axe murderer, it wouldn’t hurt for her to know whose name to give investigators when they start a manhunt for my killer.
Brynn: If I go missing… Seven Wrenley from the Seattle Hawkeyes did it. Probably with a bat…
I fire off the last text and watch as my phone continues to attempt to send both texts with no luck.
“What do you write, Brynn?” he finally asks.
What do I write?
I don’t remember telling him that I’m an author. It’s not something I usually open up about, especially with strangers.
“How do you know I’m a writer?”
We pass by the first open door to our left in the hallway. The light is on, and from my limited visibility, it looks like a bathroom, with the door only cracked.
What I wouldn’t give for a bubble bath to warm up in and decompress from this day.
“You said that your writing agent booked you this house. Are you a journalist?” he asks.
“God, no!” I say with more emphasis than I meant.
There’s nothing wrong with being a journalist.
It’s a respectable profession, but I’m not interested in the amount of research required for that job, and the real world is too boring. I like writing about make-believe characters.
I clear my throat and try again.
“I mean, no, I write fiction.”
“You don’t peg me as someone who writes thriller novels.”
Seven is one of the last people I want to admit that I write steamy romance books to. Not because I’m ashamed but because guys like Seven just don’t understand the world of romance books.
