Page 8 of High Water

I can do it in five if that’s all you’ve got.

I stare at the text messages on my phone, applying another layer of lotion to my legs as I debate whether or not to respond to his latest entreaty. Levi or Grant must have given him my new number. But I haven’t been able to bring myself to answer him. The man showed up after over fifteen years, like a ghost in my kitchen, spoke a handful of words to me, and then left again.

Levi claimed he was pulled away on a mission for work. I didn’t dare ask more questions than that, as I could tell there was suspicion simmering underneath every exchange we had about Bishop. The only thing that had kept me from a full-on interrogation was his preoccupation with Zephyrine and making sure she was safe. A new family mystery we’re all trying to solve extended that reprieve. But with Bishop back again? It’s only a matter of time. The clock is ticking whether I like it or not.

I finish massaging the lotion into my skin and gently tap the side button on my phone, shrouding the room in darkness again. I’ll think about it tomorrow.

Or I’ll stay up half the night worrying about it tonight.

Like I have been for weeks now.

How am I going to tell my brothers?

How am I going to tell Fallon?

I blink as I make my way to the bed, trying to let my eyes adjust to the room, but the afterimage at the center of my vision makes me have to hold my hands out to try to feel for the bed before I trip over it. A venture that fails almost immediately when I slam my shin into the footboard and stumble forward.

I whimper in pain as I hold my palms out to brace my fall. But instead of the ground, I’m met with large warm hands that wrap around my waist and pull me up. My back bumps against a hard, broad chest. I jump at the contact. Gasping and losing my voice to the shock of it

“I’ve got you,” the familiar deep voice interrupts me.

I still attempt a scream, one that comes out raspy and truncated by the dryness of my throat.

“Jones, it’s me. It’s me,” he insists, one of his hands going to my forearm with soft, gentle strokes of reassurance.

My fear is replaced by fury. I rip myself free of his arms and turn on him. I can still only make out half his face in the dark. My hand goes to my throat, my thumb swiping back and forth over the hollow of my neck as I try to regain any semblance of poise and calm. When I imagined him being in this room again in my head, it was far more dignified than this.

“You scared the hell out of me!” I snap, as mad about his presence in the dark as I am about my near tumble in front of him, and the conversation I know he’s about to force us to have.

“I’m sorry.” He takes a step back, his eyes drifting over me, watching me even in the dark.

“How did you even get in here?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

“The windows and doors in this place still work like they always did. You’ll recall I used to know how to get in and out of this room unnoticed. Pretty regularly, if memory serves.”

I click my tongue and shake my head. I can’t exactly argue with that, but the implication has a thousand memories of the two of us in this room racing through my head. The nights he would sneak in and out without anyone in my family being the wiser. It sends a rush of awareness coursing through me. One I don’t need right now. Not when the older version of him is an improvement on all the things I’ve always liked about him. Or when we’re alone in the dark and right next to the same bed we spent hours⁠—

“Did you want a more specific play-by-play?” His voice interrupts my thoughts, and I realize the unnatural pause I’ve created with my daydreams.

“Absolutely not.” I narrow my eyes at him, knowing full well it has zero effect in the dark but needing to put the armor back on anyway. “Just because you know something doesn’t mean you should exploit it.”

“You didn’t leave me with much of a choice.” His tone is flat. There’s a touch of irritation in the accusation that follows. “Especially now that I know you’ve been getting my messages.”

He saw me read them and ignore them when I got out of the shower. Watched me as I put lotion on in my silky, barely there pajamas. The ones I’m still in. Shit. I don’t blush. But if I did, I might. Instead, my fingers run over the necklace dangling from my throat.

If he saw that, how much more did he see?

“How long have you been in here?”

“Long enough.” He’s curt. Which I suspect means he was in here when I was in the shower. And I’d left the door cracked. After all, I had no reason to imagine anyone would be in the bedroom.

“You need to leave. If anyone finds you in here—” I need him gone.

“Who’s going to find me? You got other visitors coming to your room in the middle of the night?”