Page 27 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander
The fire alarm erupts through the entire house.
I jump so violently I nearly slip.
Oh my God. The pizza.
I don’t even have time to think.
I sprint out of the bathroom completely naked.
Because my brain is in full panic mode, and modesty is no longer a priority when your house might be on fire.
The hallway is freezing.
Freezing like the Arctic.
Freezing like Moira MacTavish’s glare.
I race across the landing, shivering, my bare feet slapping against the cold floorboards, then fly down the stairs as fast as possible without breaking my neck.
The kitchen is full of smoke, but thankfully not on fire.
Just very, very smoky.
And the alarm keeps shrieking like a hysterical banshee.
I yank open the oven, and a wave of black smoke assaults me. I cough and stagger back slightly.
The pizza is black. Charred.
All that remains is a disk of coal vaguely resembling what it used to be.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
I grab it with a dish towel—burning my fingers anyway—and throw it into the sink.
It lets out an offended hiss against the cold enamel.
The alarm is still screaming.
I rush to open every window.
The wind immediately barrels into the room, icy and merciless.
That’s when I suddenly remember I’m naked.
Standing in front of an open window facing the street.
Whatever.
I climb onto a chair to reach the alarm attached to the ceiling and frantically mash the button until it finally decides to shut up.
Silence falls over the kitchen.
I remain standing there on my chair, naked and freezing, staring at my incinerated pizza in the sink while smoke slowly drifts out through the open windows.
My perfect evening.
My relaxing moment.
