Page 86 of You've Got Hate Mail
There’s a fucking fire, Cricket. Quit worrying about glitter.
Heath’s saying words I’ve rarely heard him say out loud before, never in front of his daughter. Far worse than the singledammitI heard out of him the day we met.
And Fluffy’s still hissing and growling at all of us.
“Go outside,” I tell Lavender. “I’ll get Fluffy.”
Shit.
Shit.
I’m crying too.
Lift the couch.
The answer was alwayslift the couch.
Except if I lifted the couch, there would’ve been glitter everywhere.
But then I would’ve gotten back to the pancakes and the house wouldn’t be on fire.
The alarms stop, and I realize Heath’s sprayed my chocolate chip pancakes with a fire extinguisher and knocked the whole smoke alarm off the ceiling.
With what?
He’s not that tall, is he?
Maybe he is.
“Lavender. It’s okay. Fire’s out,” he says. “Go outside and wait for me. You know where to go. We’ve practiced this.”
She lets go of me and dashes for the front door.
“Cricket. Get in here,” Heath orders, his voice deadly calm.
He has his back to me, so all I can see is his chiseled ass and his broad back and the thick trunks of his thighs and water sluicing down his spine.
And the side profile of his face as he watches me gape at his naked body.
Fuck.
“Fluffy had a glitter accident.”Wake up, Cricket. Wake. Up.
This is a nightmare.
This has to be a nightmare.
I have not been in charge of this household today while a glittered cat distracted me while I was cooking on the stove.
It’s not real.
“Are you okay?” he asks, still in that deadly calm voice.
I swipe at my cheeks and stifle a sob. “Yes,” I force out.
He stares at me, a muscle twitching in his cheek.
And I snap.
