Page 347 of Playing With Fire

I laugh and reach around him for my coffee.

Darcy sits on the counter stool, watching us with the kind of judgment usually reserved for people who return library books with dog-eared pages.

“Your cat's staring at me again,” Bishop says.

“He's waiting for you to drop something.”

“Tell him peanut butter's not on the menu.”

“He doesn't care. He just wants to watch you clean it up.”

Bishop grins, dumps another spoonful into the blender, and hits the button.

The machine roars to life.

I lean against the counter, taking in the ordinary perfection of it all. The sunlight spilling across the kitchen. The sound of Bishop humming along to the radio.

The way his hand automatically finds my waist when he moves past me.

Somewhere along the way, this stopped feeling like the place I was temporarily staying.

It became home. And I can't imagine being anywhere else.

My phone vibrates against the counter.

An unfamiliar number.

I almost ignore it.

Then I notice the New York area code.

“Hello?”

“Delaney Beckett?”

“Yes?”

“Good morning, Delaney. Beau Montgomery here.”

I nearly drop my coffee.

Bishop glances over.

I straighten.

“Mr. Montgomery. Hi.”

“Please, call me Beau. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time.”

“No. Not at all.”

Bishop turns off the blender.

The sudden silence makes my pulse seem twice as loud.

“I've been meaning to call you,” He says. “Samantha Hart has been keeping me updated on your work at Wilder House. She's had nothing but good things to say.”

“Oh. Thank you.”