Page 88 of Without a Clue

“I don’t mind.”

He comes back, and I feel the press of the warm cloth against my head—the first moment of something to help.

I purse my lips.

“What’s wrong?” he says.

“Nothing.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I was itching for it to be cold.”

He grunts. “Itching, huh?”

A little while later he returns. Replaces the warm with cold.

After a few seconds, I give a blind little chuckle, all tucked up now, nothing more of me to see.

“You ready to take back your words?” I say.

And as soon as I say them, I instantly regret it.

A fear takes over.

Rational or irrational, it’s there, and I’m just not confident that I’m quite the catch he says I am. And a part of me suddenly waits to hear his words: “Yeah, actually. I am. You’re not the girl I was hoping for, after all.”

What I get instead, however, is a cold tingle that runs all the way up my spine. That tingle your body gets when it senses somebody hovering just over your shoulder. Right behind your ear.

Or in my case, a hair’s breadth above me.

And the brush of his lips against my cheek. “Never.”

I fall asleep.

When I wake the headache is gone and the room is utterly black—now not just from the drawn curtains but from the dark of night outside the patio doors. The clock on the bedside table reads 11:16 p.m.

Nash is seated on the chair in the corner.

His laptop is open on his lap, dimly lighting up the flannel on his chest.

Still working on that book.

Still working on that ending.

The brim of his hat is down over his face, and he’s slumped over in his chair.

Sleeping.

Or . . .

My feet hit the floor so fast it sounds like cattle racing.

The second I grab his shoulder and give a firm shake, he jumps to standing and shoots his head around, ready to fight.