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Unless it wasn’t a member of the crew.
My steps get a little heavier, a little faster, as I contemplate that we might have a squatter on the site. An offender. Teenagers messing around.
I shake my head. Not on my site.
I work my way down past the vacation cabins, eyeing them all briefly to check that everything is still the way I left it, and then I finally reach the clearing path that leads to the elongated double-bungalow, the stopover spot for the family that owns the place. There’s a small garden at the front of each, with currently-bare flowerbed trims to make them homey. I neaten up the edge of one with the toe of my boot as I step up to the door that used to be labelled ‘A’. I stop briefly just outside and I hold still, checking if I can hear anything. Maybe I would be able to if we hadn’t just fitted the best double-glazing in the freaking country.
I lean back so that I can see all of the front windows. Curtains are still drawn. So far, so good.
Then I grip the door handle, pause for a moment, and tug.
No give. Jace must have locked up.
Unless it wasn’t him.
The thought comes like an itch that I have to scratch and there’s no way now that I can’t check, just to make sure. I flip through my keys until I come to the one with the wordsBungalow Ataped to it and I slot it straight through the lock with no hesitation. Twist, tug. I’m in.
The bungalows are laid out in mirrored floor-plans, so where Bungalow A opens straight into the small living-dining-kitchen space with a bathroom at the back and the bedroom to the left, Bungalow B is the reflecting opposite. They’re technically one-story with the exception of the balconies. A stairwell at the back of the kitchen leads to a square door panel in the ceiling, opening up onto the roof that’s bordered in to keep it safe.
Being separate entities from the holiday cabins we’ve left the bungalows in pretty much their original form, but we did clear out some of the old furnishings with the intentions of sprucing them up when we re-kit the vacation properties. Right now the dining space is without tables or chairs, although we made sure to keep those fridges on hand for the crew’s food. My eyes flick across the empty space, feeling like something is wrong. There’s nothing out of place but something feels a little… different. Warmer. Steamy? My frown deepens as I decide to breach the threshold.
Why the hell is it so warm? I’ll check the bedroom and then I’m out of here. No point getting paranoid about some missing keys when they could have been taken for any number of reasons, justified or otherwise.
I’ve just about talked myself down from thinking that something’s amiss when my body finally reaches the bedroom doorframe. My breathing halts when I see what’s on the quilt. Theusedquilt. A quilt that’s crumpled and fluffed up, like it’s been tossing and turning all night.
But the quilt isn’t the problem here.
If this is a joke from one of my men, someone’s ass is getting firedtoday. I take a step closer to the slinky red lingerie set laid delicately on the bed and my neck gets hot, my jaw suddenly setting hard.
See-through lace cups supported by two slinky ribbon straps and – Jesus – a pair of red panties, with barely enough fabric to cover an inch of skin.
I roll my shoulders and try to settle my heaving chest.
This is the most unprofessional shit that I’ve seen in the past fucking decade. My hands are twitching by my sides as I try to work out which of my men would be stupid enough to do this.
They’re solid guys, or so I’d thought. I can’t imagine any of them pulling a prank like this.
Lingerie? Fuckinglingerie?
I hear a soft gasp behind me.
Then all hell breaks loose.
Chapter 3
Harper
I tentatively lift a pinkie finger under the spray of the shower, bracing my body for the ice-cold nip, but instead I experience an all-body exhale, a golden sigh of relief as the water that I’ve been running for the past three minutes laps at my skin, warm and wonderful. I didn’t shower last night because, after catching taxi number six to grab food in town, I was no longer walking amongst the living. I said a little prayer by the end of my bed, relieved myself of the last of the day’s tears, and then I crawled under the covers, hoping for a speedy departure.
I got it. I fell asleep for the first time in four weeks without family betrayals or cheating fiancés sinking their teeth into my subconscious, and I woke up with the deep autumn mist peeping around the wooden frame of my window.
I step under the spray and try not to cry as I rub my ringless fingers up and down my body. What a marshmallow.Get a grip, softie. Bad stuff happens to people all the time – I should just be grateful that Evan and I broke up when we were only two years down the line.
Imagine if it had been longer.
Imagine if we had actuallygotten married.
I shudder at the thought, scrubbing the heels of my hands under my eyes as the tears blur in with the stream from the faucet. I twist it off, letting the steam curl into my lungs and soothe me from the inside-out, and I distract myself by mentally itinerating.
