Page 115 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series
It was just sex. Incredible, blow-your-balls-off sex. Butjust sexnonetheless.
Amy showed no signs of rising soon, so he headed for the kitchen. He needed coffee to clear his head. The bright light of morning and the few hours of sleep he’d managed to snag were bringing too much clarity to his not-quite-as-tired mind. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what.
Heading down the hallway, he glanced in the guest room as he passed?—
He paused.
There was an unfamiliar suitcase resting open on the bed. Amy’s? Had she been so certain of her success with him that she’d packed a bag?
The idea bothered him. Entering the room, he casually looked to see what she’d brought with her. The clothing didn’t look like the stuff a woman would use to seduce a man. No sexy lingerie or revealing outfits. In fact, with the exception of one pretty hot leather miniskirt, there was nothing more than jeans and regular tops, a bathroom bag and a travel book about Chicago.
What the hell? It appeared Amy had come here straight from the airport. Maybe he’d place a call to Mike after all. Somehow the pieces to this puzzle weren’t fitting together. Time to ask some questions.
Andrew continued to the kitchen, filled the coffeepot with water and counted out twelve scoops. He added another for good measure. Something told him he needed a strong brew today. A quick glance at the clock confirmed it was almost nine. Not too early to call his friend.
He picked up his phone and dialed. Mike answered with a chipper “hello”. Idiot man had always been a morning person.
“Hey, Mike. What’s Amy look like?”
“What?”
Andrew sighed. “The girl you want to fix me up with. What does she look like?”
There was a slight pause on the other end. “Never known you to be so shallow, Andrew. Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t. I’m just curious. Describe her.”
Mike started rattling off a list of physical attributes that basically told him nothing. “Brown hair, brown eyes, nice figure, medium height.”
The adjectives were too bland for Amy’s chestnut tresses, chocolate-brown eyes and curves, but they still fit. “Does she have an accent?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?”
Andrew gritted his teeth. “A pretty fucking simple one. Yes or no?”
“She doesn’t have a discernable one. I mean, she’s an Army brat and she spent some time in the South. Every now and then I catch a trace of a twang, but it’s nothing to write home about.”
“So she’s not Australian?”
Mike chuckled. “What the hell are you talking about? Are you drinking already?”
“No. Listen. I gotta go. Talk to you later.”
“Are you going to explain?—”
Andrew clicked the phone off in the middle of Mike’s question.
Who the fuck was upstairs in his bed?
He’d accused her of breaking in, but she’d claimed to have a key. If Mike didn’t give it to her, then who did?
Harper. The only other person with a house key was his sister.
Shit.
The Australian teacher.
Harper had mentioned the woman several times in passing over the past year. Something about starting a pen pal program.
