Southern Comfort - Natasha Madison Page 0,32

is hiding, all the pieces will click into place.”

“Got it,” he says. “I’ll be in touch.”

I hang up the phone, then look out the window at the setting sun. I look up at the ceiling, and I pick up my phone one last time.

Me: I want a detail on the house. Round up the guys.

I don’t care what Jacob says. I don’t trust anyone but my guys at this point.

Chapter Thirteen

Olivia

My eyes open, and I gasp when I see that the house is pitch black. I sit up too fast, and when I lean out to catch myself, my hand knocks over the lamp on the nightstand. “Fuck,” I hiss but not before I hear him running in the house.

The lights are flipped on, causing my eyes to squint from the brightness. “What happened?” he asks. I look at him, seeing that he was sleeping. One of his eyes is still closed as he gets used to the brightness.

“I …” I lean down to pick up the pieces, and then I look up at him. He’s in shorts again and no shirt. “I woke up, and I got up too fast,” I say. “My head started spinning.”

“I’ll get a broom,” he says. “Don’t touch anything.” He is back before I can try to pick up anymore of it. “I’ll take care of this. You go sit on the couch.” I watch him as he cleans up the mess. Walking around to go to the living room, I find he was sleeping on the couch again. I look over at the clock in the kitchen and see it’s a little after midnight.

“I napped for eight hours,” I say when he comes into the room with the dustpan filled. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

He looks over at me when he throws out the glass. “Well, I tried at around seven, but you just mumbled something and then rolled over.” He walks back to the hallway and puts away the broom. “And two, I think there is a saying never wake a sleeping baby.” I put my hands to my mouth as he goes to wash his hands at the sink. “So I figured you’d wake when you were hungry.”

“Well, now that you say that,” I say. “Why don’t you go back to bed?”

“And miss a midnight snack with you?” he jokes. “What do you want to eat?”

“I can prepare my own snack,” I say and walk into the kitchen.

“Do you want me to warm up biscuits?” He says the words, and I look over at him and try not to give away too much. “Mom brought over some.” He walks to the fridge and takes out a Ziploc bag with the biscuits inside. “She also brought over some apple butter.”

“Did she put instructions on that?” I ask. Walking over to him, I take the bag from him, and there in the middle are the instructions. “Where do you keep your pans?” I ask. He looks at me, and I laugh. “You’ve never cooked in your kitchen?”

“It took me like two years to break it to Mom that I would be living in this house full-time.” He opens the cabinets until he finds the pans he needs and hands it to me. “When the furniture got delivered, I swear I saw her wipe her tears.” I place the biscuits on the pan and then start the oven.

“Aww, you’re her baby boy,” I joke with him. Something creeps into me, but I brush it away. I’ve never really wanted children, but the thought of protecting my own child fills my head.

“I’m not even going to tell you the number of times I’ve come home and found her cleaning my house. I had to sit her down and tell her to stop.” He shakes his head.

“She’s taking care of you, cowboy. You can’t fault her for that,” I say, thinking back to the one time I was sick, and my mother just brushed it off.

“I don’t feel well, Mom. I have a sore throat,” I said while I laid on the couch. Even getting up and going to the bathroom hurt.

“Oh, please stop with the dramatics, Olivia. You have a show to do.” She said this while ripping off the blanket I managed to get on me. “The car will be here in five minutes. Pop some Advil and get dressed. I’ve worked too hard for you to ruin everything.”

“I’ll be back.” He walks toward his bedroom, and I turn and open his fridge. I