Southern Secrets (Southern #7) - Natasha Madison Page 0,11

look around. I have been in here a total of two times. Both times were with Quinn—one was to move her bed and the other was to help hook up her television on the brick wall to my left.

I walk past the living room and the L- shaped couch facing the brick wall with the television. The living room spills into the dining room, and I know the spare bedrooms are on the right side, and her bedroom is on the left. I feel like I’m intruding on her privacy by being here by myself. I look at the pictures on the wall when I turn toward the spare bedroom. There are three pictures on the wall, one on top of the other.

The top one is a picture of Amelia with her grandfather, her smile huge as she hugs him. I don’t care what he says; she’s his favorite. The middle one is of her with Quinn and Chelsea. The three of them are laughing at something only they understand or some inside joke. Then the last one is of her and Chelsea with her head thrown back laughing. The candid shots look like they were taken not too long ago.

I walk toward the first bedroom and stop in my tracks. This has to be the nicest spare bedroom I’ve seen in my life. Usually, a spare bedroom is just a bed, but not here. A king-size bed fills the room with a cast-iron bed frame. The white cover on the bed looks too nice to even touch. A checkered black-and-white cover is folded at the end of the bed with matching pillows.

Turning, I walk to the next room, which is the bathroom. After dumping the bag on the floor, I push the shower curtain to the side and turn on the water. I strip out of the smoke-soaked clothes and toss them in a pile on the floor.

I step under the hot water and close my eyes, stopping the burning for just a minute. I put my hands on the white tiles on the wall, and when I open my hands, I see that the black is coming off it. The water is turning gray at my feet. I hang my head down, letting the hot water seep into my skin. I spend more time in the shower than I ever have, washing twice to make sure I get the smoke off my skin. When I step out, I grab a white towel and wipe my face to see if anything black comes off.

Opening the black bag, I grab the shorts and slip them on. Walking out of the bathroom, I go back to the bedroom. I think about slipping under the covers, but instead, I walk out and go lie on the couch. It takes me less than thirty seconds to fall asleep.

I hear walking, and my eyes open slowly, and it takes me a minute to figure out where I’m at. Looking to the left, I see the brick wall, and then I hear movement coming from the kitchen. The house is darker, and I look to see that someone has closed the drapes. I sit up and look at Amelia in the kitchen, trying to be as quiet as she can. "Hey," I say, my voice groggy as I get up.

"I’m so sorry. I tried to be quiet," she says. I see that she’s tied her hair up on top of her head, and she’s wearing shorts. "Why are you on the couch?" she asks, reaching into the cupboard to pull out another plate.

I walk past her wooden dining table with two long benches and a vase of fresh roses in the middle. "The bed looked too clean to sleep on," I say and run my hand through my hair.

She stops moving and just looks at me. "What bed?"

I look at her and point toward the bedroom. "The one with the white bedspread and the black-and-white-checkered blanket."

She puts her head back and laughs. "Chelsea threw up on that bed two weeks ago."

"Gross," I say, shaking my head. "Can I get a glass of water?"

"Help yourself," she says. "Cups are there"—she points at a door—"and drinks are in there"—she points at the fridge. "You can also help yourself to some chicken pot pie."

"You cooked?" I ask, going over to the cupboard and pulling it open to grab a glass. I look over at her as she grabs her plate and goes toward the dining room table. I