John Priest stayed at Glacier Lily.
Second, there was no denying the iron control he kept over his emotions slipped that day in my foyer. And he wasn’t upset generally about the state of a world where random women were assaulted in mountain cabins.
He was upset that I was there, alone, unprotected, and violence had been perpetrated on my property.
“Yep,” I whispered into the waning light. “The dude likes me.”
I didn’t know what to do with this.
Suddenly, my thoughts turned to Priest’s hands.
After that, I thought about the fact my vibrator was constantly on charge, that was how much I used it.
What could I say? I was a twenty-six year old woman without a boyfriend but with a good imagination and a healthy sex drive. That kind of thing happened.
I took my feet from the railing, put them to the deck, and heaved myself out of my Adirondack chair (that seriously needed sanding and paint, not to mention a pad, my butt was aching).
I entered the house and went to the powder room on the first floor.
It needed updating. The wallpaper gave me a headache, it was so flowery. The oval mirror over the sink had once been gilded. Now it looked tawdry. And there were rust stains in the sink from a drip that my dad fixed for me when they visited last Christmas. A drip, from those stains, that had to have been ongoing for perhaps centuries.
I didn’t take any of this in.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
I could see my hair. It was down, waving and curling wild and way longer than I used to wear it, since I never had time for haircuts.
I didn’t have on even a swipe of makeup and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used cosmetics. It had to be months. It could be over a year.
And I was wearing another babydoll tee, this one light pink and in hot pink on the front it said, “Carnal Is for Bikers.” Over that was what could only be described as a stick skeleton man riding a stick motorcycle with a huge, weird, wild grin on his skeleton face. It was from a biker town that was about an hour away. I’d bought it on one of my rare jaunts around the area, one that did double duty of me putting out Glacier Lily brochures and stapling leaflets to bulletin boards.
I loved that tee.
I was also wearing a pair of cutoff jeans shorts. These were faded and I fancied they hung pretty good on me, what with me putting on a bit of the weight I lost after Dick Grant hastened his retreat due to me kicking him out.
When I looked down to my feet, I saw I wasn’t wearing any shoes.
I was sporting a rather nice pedicure, though, bright purple that was almost neon.
I’d done it myself. And the results pleased me.
They pleased me enough—it all pleased me enough—I walked out and went to the kitchen, heading straight to the fridge. I slid out the homemade chocolate cream pie I’d put in there that morning. I grabbed a knife. When I was about to slice in, I moved it three centimeters wider and sliced a huge-ass piece. I slid it on a plate, covered it in cling wrap, and went to the back door. I slid on my pink metallic, slim strap havaianas with their sole covered in gray, white, and turquoise flowers then I headed to the front door.
Before I could think better of it, I grabbed my key, walked out, locked up, and moved to the lane.
Then I moved straight to cabin eleven.
The lights were on, the sheers pulled.
I walked up the steps, across the porch, and to the front door.
I sucked in a breath.
Then I lifted my hand and knocked.
A nanosecond later, the door swung open so swiftly, I gasped and took a step back.
“You okay?” John Priest asked.