“Hello, my true crime lovers,” the voice of my favorite podcaster started. The guy’s voice wasn’t as deep as Cameron’s, but he had a very similar accent. Which was ironic. And unimportant. I closed my eyes and let out a breath. “In today’s episode I will be taking you along with me to the wildest tundra of Alaska. So lock your doors, sit back in your comfiest chair, and let’s travel back in time, to the case of the Alaska’s slaughterer of…”
Head burrowed in the pillow, I focused on the soothing tone and rich images painted in my mind. This was an episode I’d been saving for a rainy day, but as I ventured into the story, I wasn’t so soothed by that voice anymore. And the images were no longer rich and in my mind. They were spooky and disturbingly familiar. Specifically the antlers that—
Something cackled in the cabin. Or cracked. Or creaked.
I paused the episode.
I sat up very slowly and searched the shadows filling up the cabin, praying that I was imagining things. But the truth is that I’d never had a great imagination. And I was sure I’d heard something on the other side of the cabin.
Another creak echoed. This one closer.
I held my breath, the beating of my heart quickly reaching my temples. I tore my AirPods out and searched every corner and shadow again, not finding anything.
A shiver crawled down my spine at the mere of thought of an animal or—Jesus—some crazy Alaskan butcher sneaking into the cabin and watching me. So out of some stupid instinct, I closed my hands around the comforter and brought it to my chin. The fabric was so itchy that it felt like something was crawling on my skin. But it had to be paranoia speaking. I grabbed my phone and turned the flashlight on. There couldn’t be—
A set of small feline-like eyes blinked from the darkness.
And at the exact same time, something moved under my ass. Underneath me.
I screamed. I jolted straight out of that bed, snatched everything on my bedside table, and ran.
“No, no, no, no, no. No.” I went for the first pair of shoes I found. The stilettos I’d worn today. “This wasn’t part of the deal.” I raced across the cabin. I was terrified and furious at the audacity of the universe to throw this on my already full plate. “I was supposed to be on the bottom,” I continued, making it to the antlers and grabbing my purse from where I’d hung it. “All the things that came before were supposed to be my rock bottom. There shouldn’t be more.”
But there was, apparently.
And what was worse, Cameron Caldani had been right. I was not going to make it. Not even for the night.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cameron
“Reckless, stubborn woman,” I said, glancing out the window.
I made the effort to blink a few times, even took another sip of my coffee—French press, a terrible watery joke considering I was an espresso drinker—but I’d left my machine behind and clearly, my eyes had to be betraying me. Either that, or I’d been right all along.
I turned on my heels with one clear objective in mind—the door—but I heard Willow calling for me from the kitchen. Before coming to Green Oak, I would have assumed she was wondering why we weren’t having breakfast, but the incessant mewling and calling had nothing to do with food now. Unlike Pierogi, Willow had been bitching since the first box was packed back in L.A. Ever since arriving here, she’d been very clear about who was to blame for all the discomfort she was suffering. Me. So when I crossed the living room and found her poised on the kitchen counter, right next to the French press, I knew exactly what was coming next.
“Can you please give it a rest?” I asked one of my two cats. “I can only deal with one complicated, frustrating female at a time.”
She held my gaze in silence, then moved closer to the pot. Challenging me.
“Willow,” I warned. But her paw came out in response. “I swear to God, Willow. That coffee is no good, but if you make me—”
She mewled, interrupting me. As if telling me, I don’t care what you do or do not think. And sweet Jesus, a humorless laugh burst out of my mouth, because how was it possible that the cat I’d adopted years ago could remind me of a woman I’d known for less than a day?
That tiny but sneaky paw inched closer, sobering me right up. “Willow,” I said. Softly, this time, pleadingly. “I know you’re not happy here, but we all need to—”
Willow jumped off the counter and dashed into the hallway.
“Adapt,” I finished, my eyes focusing on the trail of mud she’d just left behind. I raised my voice. “And please, stop sneaking out of the house.”
Pierogi lifted his head from the arm of the couch, giving me a charitable look.
“Thanks, P,” I told her.
My phone pinged from the kitchen island. I grabbed it, a glance telling me who it was—Liam, my former agent—and what he wanted—something I didn’t have the energy to deal with.
So I locked the screen, slipped it into my pocket, and gave myself five seconds to regroup. Then, I stomped my way out of the house and onto the porch. I wasn’t going to fool myself, a large—and loud—part of me knew that I shouldn’t be involving myself in anything concerning that woman. I shouldn’t even be entertaining going to her. She knew who I was, and she’d almost blurted it out to the girls.
I’d gone through almost a month of anonymity. I went on my hikes, grabbed coffee from Josie’s Joint, reluctantly ran practice three times a week since the season had kicked off, and kept to myself. Coaching was already a stretch on what I had been looking for here. Peace and quiet. Silence. Nature. Nothing football—or soccer, I thought with an eyeroll—related. Yes, even after five years playing in L.A. I still felt a prickle when I had to call the sport I loved something other than football.
The arrival of that woman had muddled everything up. Adalyn Elisa Reyes was a major inconvenience and I should not be walking toward her car.
I should have been going in the opposite direction. Probably move away. To a different town.
I knew she’d bring only trouble with her suits and her heels and her plans to drive the team to its full potential or some bullshit I suspected would only bring attention I didn’t need or want.
And yet, I found myself crossing my yard and banging my fist on the window of her car.
Ignoring the sense of déjà vu, I waited for the woman curled up in the driver’s seat to react. Her head was once again against the window, and her lips were parted, but her expression was lax with sleep. My eyes betrayed me, dipping down her body and noticing how her arms hugged her bare legs. I cursed under my breath. She was wearing next to nothing. Just some flimsy silky sleep set that left very little to the imagination.
Something deep in my gut flared.
Was she mad? September was on the mild side in this area, but at night, temperatures could decrease at least twenty degrees. She could—
Ah, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t care whether this woman was cold or not.
I ripped my gaze from all that skin on display and banged on the window again. Much, much harder.
She awoke with a jolt.
Her whole body jumped as she clutched her meager top, looking so disoriented and frightened that for an instant I felt bad. Me. Feeling remorseful when she was being so recklessly irresponsible.
Her eyes found me. “You again,” she scoffed, her words muffled by the glass. “You scared me! What in the world do you think you’re doing?”
“What am I doing?” I repeated, flabbergasted. “Better question is, what in the world do you think you are doing sleeping in your car like this? Are you mad?”
“What I do is none of your business.” She turned her head, giving me her profile.
With a slow exhale, I placed my hand on the roof of the car and leaned closer. “You are camped in my yard, that makes you my business. Can you roll down the window so we don’t have to yell at each other?”
“Our yard,” she said, gaze on the windshield. “And you’re always yelling. Glass or not.”
My exasperation sparked. “Adalyn,” I said, and that word alone was somehow enough for her to shake her head and grudgingly press the button.
Once the window was down, she pinned me with an unimpressed glance. “So? What can I help you with?”