Page 44 of Widow’s Walk

Her stomach fluttered. Safe.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her face with both hands. A small throb pulsed at her temples. Everything between lying down last night and waking now felt like a film burned at the edges. Her throat was dry, and her bladder—not her curiosity—finally forced her to move.

Slipping carefully from the bed, she tried not to disturb either her canine or her accidental houseguest. But the instant her feet touched the rug, she winced.

Her soles were rough, tender, and gritty.

She looked down. Grass stains. Small flecks of soil and bits of dead leaf clung to her skin.

What the hell…

She must have gone outside. The sight of it—the physical proof—turned her stomach in a slow, queasy roll. It hadn’t been a dream, then. She had really wandered into the night.

And Sully…

His presence suddenly made sense. At least, part of it. He must have found her, carried her home, and then apparently camped on the floor like some prehistoric guardian because he didn’t trust her not to wander again.

She watched his chest rise and fall, slow and even beneath the quilt. A tenderness curled in her chest, completely at odds with the embarrassment prickling her neck. He looked so peaceful and oblivious like that—his big hands relaxed against the floorboards.

“Idiot,” she murmured, but her tone came out closer to fond than she liked.

Ollie gave a small huff in agreement.

Padding carefully past, Amy crossed the room toward the bathroom. Her reflection in the mirror caught her by surprise—hair wild, eyes shadowed, nightgown wrinkled, a faint smudge of dirt streaked up one calf. What in the hell did I do last night?

Maybe a hot shower would make her feel better, wash away the craziness of whatever had happened.

As the water ran, she pressed a palm against the cool tile and closed her eyes. The fog in her mind parted, just enough for more flashes to slip through. This time not of Sully, but of the pull that had gotten her outside, toward the mansion, in the first place. Her self-control had faltered, and something unexplained had crept in. Probably the influence of the ghost hunters’ wild energy and talk of spirits.

She exhaled slow, uneven breaths, trying to steady herself.

When she glanced toward the door again, she could still hear Sully’s steady, ridiculous snores drifting up from the floorboards.

And despite everything, Amy felt the corners of her mouth twitch. The least she could do was make her rescuer some coffee.

Chapter 18

The scent of coffee reached Sully before the sound of her voice did.

He cracked an eye open to a blur of light and the cheerful hum of something small and sentient—Ollie, probably—snuffling near his ear. His neck protested when he tried to move. So did his back, his shoulder, and a dozen lesser muscles that had all hardened into stone sometime during the night.

“Morning,” Amy said softly.

He pushed himself upright, joints popping like knuckles. “God.” His voice came out rough, half a groan. “Feels like I slept on a bag of bricks.”

“You did. The floorboards,” she said, handing him a mug. Steam curled between them.

He took it with both hands. “Bless you.” The first swallow nearly burned his tongue, but it was worth it. Real coffee, not the sawdust-flavored instant stuff he’d make do with at the mansion work site.

He followed her down the stairs. He tried hard not to moan out loud as his muscles shifted back into their usual places.

Amy’s hair was still damp, curling around her shoulders, and she’d traded the nightgown for soft jeans and a sweater. Fresh, clean, and bright in the morning light—too bright, maybe, for a man just peeled off the floor.

He settled onto one of the kitchen chairs, stretching his stiff shoulders as she cracked eggs into a pan.

“Some breakfast?” she asked. “Seems like the least I could do after you… um… saved me last night.”

He blinked. “Yeah, about that.”