Not making anything. Everything belongs to Janet, I'm just playing. Set immediately after Plum Lovin' with thanks to Tammy for loaning the book.
I woke up with my head pounding. Never should have gone for that second glass of wine after Diesel left. I never learn. I shoved a pillow over my head as the racket started up again, sending my brain bouncing off the inside of my skull. Actually, now that I thought about it, the pounding was worse than the pain. Huh. Maybe at the ripe old age of thirty-something, I'm finally learning to hold my liquor. Who would have thought?
Pound, pound, pound. Jeez, Louise, this pounding thing was really starting to annoy me. I mean, I'm pretty much a wimp, so I'm not really complaining about the lack of headache pain, but how was I supposed to get any sleep with someone banging away like that? I rolled over reluctantly and squinted at the alarm clock, as if that would give me a clue about how long this might go on. 11:53.
Great. All the excitement with Val's wedding and chasing down Annie's clients with Diesel had left me exhausted, and I had practically crawled between the sheets just before ten. Tonight, I'd been grateful for the tired achiness that sent me stumbling into my bedroom. I never liked to admit it, but sometimes I had trouble sleeping, with what I reluctantly called "Stephanie's Psycho Collection" prancing through my dreams at odd times. Most of them time, I could keep it under control. Most of the time, I could press up against the weight and warmth of Joe's back and let the evenness of his heartbeat lull me back to sleep. I have to admit, the anonymous red rose today had spooked me for a minute, an unwelcome reminder of "The Game" in which I'd been the prey. Joe, thank God, knew my aversion to red roses and had sent a lovely arrangement of yellow roses for Valentine's Day even though he was stuck on a case out of town and couldn't be here himself.
Bang, bang, bang—there went the damn hammers again, chasing down my random thoughts in my sleep-fogged brain. I rolled over into my thinking position to consider the effort to gain ratio of actually dragging my butt out of bed on Valentine's night, getting dressed, and trying to find an open McDonald's drive through. It was cold outside, there was that, and I'd have to put on layers. Probably not a good idea to throw on a robe over my naked body and try to make it to the car. With my luck, the anonymous rose psycho would abduct me in the parking lot and then where would I be? Naked except for a robe in the February cold. Probably the newspaper would pick up the story and my mother would say, "Didn't I always tell you to put on clean underwear? Didn't I?" Did I really want to deal with kidnappers AND my mother? Nah, I could sleep through it. I turned over on my side, unable to get comfortable. The spot where I'd been sleeping was warm enough, but when I'd turned over on my back, my feet had hit the cold sheets on the other side of the bed. I can never sleep with cold feet. I blew out a sigh, and the pounding started up again.
Still dopey with sleep, I finally realized the pounding wasn't in my head, it was at my front door. This time I frowned at the alarm clock. Still 11:53. Amazing how fast your thoughts can spin around in your head. Nearly midnight. Who would be knocking on my door at midnight? Well, whoever it was had staying power, and obviously had no intention of going away. I decided the robe would do to cover my goosebump covered body from the bed to the door. After all, I reasoned, how many kidnappers knock first? I should be golden.
I padded out into the livingroom and promptly banged my shins on the entry table. Why had I thought that was a good idea, again? Sure, I had a place to put my gun, keys and handbag when I walked in the door, but now it attacked me in the middle of the night when I was unarmed. I should have just stuck with the cookie jar, I thought and glared at the offending piece of furniture. I was still giving my entry table the stink eye when I answered the door, and using the toe of my good foot to rub the bruise on my other shin.
"Hey."
Suddenly all the blood left my head and detoured straight for my doo-dah. Oh, my. Doc Martens on his feet, snug black jeans, black leather jacket that made his shoulders look a mile wide. Days past a five o'clock shadow, hair curling lightly over the collar of the jacket, a slash of white teeth in a lopsided grin and eyes the color of melted chocolate. It just didn't get any better than this. I unstuck my tongue from the roof of my mouth. "Hey, yourself. Why didn't you use your key?" I croaked. I was hoping for throaty and sexy, and instead wound up like Kermit the Frog on steroids. Shit.
"I didn't have time to stop by the house and get them. I wanted to make sure I made it here while it was still Valentine's Day," he answered. He looked over my shoulder at the vase of yellow roses he'd sent me. "I see you got your present."
Kermit be damned. I gave him a slow, lingering look, then leaned close to make sure every inch of me touched every inch of him. "Just this minute," I answered. "I got my Valentine just this very minute." I took him by the hand and led my willing captive into the bedroom, and neither of us bothered to glance into the wastebasket where a cliched and anonymous red rose wilted.