Hold On

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Just be a sec,” I muttered, moving by him, eyes to the floor, my mind belatedly realizing that I hadn’t yet taken my shower that day.

My hair was good. My hair was always good. I had an expert hand with hair and knew the precise quality (but inexpensive) products to use that would make my hair look good, even if I didn’t wash it for a week.

However, I did not have any makeup on.

And I had on a pair of supremely faded jeans that I’d owned since about a year after I’d had Ethan. They were so worn in and beat-up, they had splits at both knees, some up the front of one thigh, and one at the back just under the left cheek of my ass.

Bare feet. A seen-better-days cardie over a white tank. No jewelry. No perfume.

And Merry, looking awesome in one of his suits, was in my space, seeing me like this for the first time ever.

Shit.

I kept my eyes to the floor and only lifted them to aim my hand to the handle.

I opened the door and looked out, expecting to see Bettina, so I was surprised when it wasn’t.

It was a man of average height. He was decent looking. Dark hair salted with silver and just slightly receding. He also had a thick goatee that was more liberally salted with silver. He was wearing very nice, dark wash jeans, a button-up shirt that had been ironed, and an attractive, expensive-looking sports jacket.

He also was not standing outside my storm door.

He had the storm door open and was holding it that way.

In other words, he had clear passage to get into my house with nothing protecting me from this stranger.

Considering I had no clue who he was, and he could’ve easily knocked on the storm door and been heard, there was no reason he should’ve felt comfortable eliminating that barrier. Furthermore, a storm door was also a security door, that was, making me secure from someone like him.

Due to this, I felt annoyance mix with the confusion, which caused an edge to my voice when I asked, “Can I help you?”

He nodded. “Ms. Sheckle.”

My body snapped tight.

“I’m Walter Jones,” he went on to declare. “I’d hoped to—”

He didn’t get to telling me what he’d hoped, even though I knew what he’d fucking hoped, so he didn’t have to tell me shit.

This was because I lost my mind.

“Are you fucking shitting me?”

My voice was loud.

His face set. “Ms. Sheckle—”

“No,” I bit out, shaking my head. “Unh-unh. Man, when a woman does not take your calls, you need to get the hint no matter what reason you’re makin’ that call, and especially when you’re makin’ the calls you made to me, that you should leave it alone.”

“As I hope you heard in my voicemail message, I intend to compensate you for your time,” he told me swiftly. “I’m prepared to give you a thousand dollars to speak with me. If I could just come in—”

“Listen, asshole,” I shot back. “For me to talk to some goddamned stranger who’s lookin’ to make money off the shit Dennis Lowe piled on me, a thousand dollars won’t cut it. You could throw four fuckin’ zeroes at the end of that and it still wouldn’t cut it. Jesus, showin’ up at my door…” My voice, already loud, was rising. “What’s the matter with you?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but then his gaze darted over my shoulder, surprise hit his eyes and his body snapped alert.

I was so pissed, I didn’t feel it.

When Walter Jones did that, I felt it.

And it was not good.

What it was was me learning the intensely uncomfortable feeling of the vibe Garrett Merrick gave off when he was about to lose his motherfucking mind. When he was about to lose hold on his brand of messy that made the likes of Ryker look adjusted. When he was preparing to get covered in a pile of shit in an effort to dig someone he cares about out from under it.

Slowly, even though I should have gone faster—his mood was so extreme, it made me move like I was surrounded in molasses—I turned to him.