A voice groaned from over my shoulder as the hand on my thigh tightened.
Right, Arthur. He stayed.
My heart did a little pitter-patter.
He stayed.
More ringing.
More barking.
I slipped out of bed and fumbled in the dark for my sleep pants, bumped my shin getting out the wrong side of bed, then realized I’d left the pants somewhere at the foot and worked my way around.
The bedside lamp flicked on. Arthur grunted, a pained sound as the stretch clearly tweaked his sore leg, but said, “Can I help?”
Pitter-patter.
“I swear I’ll get this sorted. I’m so sorry they woke you.” I yanked on the pants and found the T-shirt I’d abandoned earlier today from my hamper. “Uh, stay put.” I didn’t look at him as I headed out of my bedroom. I couldn’t conceive of who might be ringing my bell like that. The police? A neighbor? A client who had an emergency and needed daycare immediately?
Twain continued to howl as I made my way to the front door, the tiles cold on my feet.
Without checking the peephole, I threw the deadbolt, and then opened the door wide. “Jesus Fucking Christ.” My jaw dropped.
“No. Cheyenne Fucking West.” She put her hand on her hip. “You going to let me in? And what’s with the noise? You get a pack of dogs since you moved here?”
“Yes, come in. No, they’re not my dogs. What the fuck are you doing here?”
My baby sister flounced in with a tiny overnight bag and a determined look on her face. She wore faded denim jeans ripped in just that way. She’d paired them with a yellow cotton top that matched her blonde hair, an oversized pale blue checked chambray shirt, and cowboy boots.
Yep, cowboy boots.
As soon as she was securely inside, I shut the door.
About the same time, the howling ceased.
I was one-hundred percent certain the two actions were not connected—which meant Arthur had his dogs under control.
Oh yeah, this isn’t going to be awkward at all. “I repeat…what the hell are you doing here?” Not to be taken wrong—I was thrilled to see her. Just, how she’d made it from upstate New York to Gaynor Beach, California was a little baffling. I was positive Mom and Dad would not have let her have a car, or a plane ticket.
“Hitched.” She toed off her boots. “God, my feet are killing me. And I’ve been living in the same two sets of clothes for a week. I’m gross.”
Gross? Don’t think about the dried cum on your skin that you might’ve missed while you were wiping yourself down with tissues. Don’t think about Arthur—“Hitched? What the fuck?” I shook my head.
She met my gaze with intense hazel-green eyes so much like my own. “Hitched. As in, I stuck out my thumb in New York City and found rides all the way across the country. Wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.”
“You mean aside from the fact it’s illegal and you could’ve been murdered?” Images flashed in my mind of her being left on the side of the road. In a ditch. Her head bashed in or shot or strangled or?—
“Do you have food? I’m hungry. The last woman who drove me here was nice, but she had to ditch me just inside the city limits and get back on the highway. She only had a couple of hours to get to San Diego. Some kind of…” Cheyenne waved her hand around. “You know, I didn’t really listen. She said she could drive me to Gaynor Beach, and here I am.”
“You walked from the highway exit ramp?” That was a long enough distance at any time. At three in the morning? Wearing cowboy boots and tight jeans?
“Yes. Food. Then chitchat. Is the kitchen this way?” She pointed down the hall.
I redirected her. “Nope. Bedrooms are that way. Bathroom if you need it. I’ll put your bag in the spare room because I’m working off the assumption you don’t have a hotel to go to, and you’re not going to hitch back to New York at three a.m.” I don’t want to make you go, but you can’t stay here long. Being seventeen and all. “Kitchen’s through here.” I led her through the living room, formal dining room, and into the kitchen.
She headed straight for the fridge.
I hovered behind her. “Why don’t I cook you something? You must be starving. When did you eat?” She didn’t look any skinner than I remembered. She was always more coltish than curvy. Lanky, like myself.
