Page 69 of In Every Chapter

She ignored me and opened a lower cupboard before dumping a cup of dog food into Rosie’s bowl, and I grabbed the canine to keep her from ambling off for a midnight snack.

Rosie shot me a look of complete and utter betrayal.

Sorry, girl, but I wasn’t getting up with you at three in the morning for a bathroom break. “Pais?”

She didn’t answer. Going to the small pantry, she pulled out . . . was that canned pineapple?

Yup. There was no doubt now. She was sleepwalking, something she hadn’t done in ages. Though witnessing it the first time on our honeymoon had been the peak of amusement. Just thinking about it made my sternum ache.

She’d pulled out the ironing board in the suite and tried to iron a pair of socks. Thankfully the iron hadn’t been plugged in. The part where she’d tried to leave the room in the middle of the night hadn’t been so entertaining, but I’d gotten her back to bed, and she’d turned into a koala, clinging to me the rest of the night.

Not that I minded.

She didn’t bother draining the pineapple can. Just abandoned it on the counter and padded into the living room in all her sleep-mussed glory and plopped down on the couch beside me.

“Whatcha doing?” she asked.

I shifted the laptop off the pillow in my lap. “Just working.”

“Hmm.” She poked my arm, lingering to caress my sleeve. “I like your muscles. And your eyes. They’re pretty.”

“I like you,” I said softly.

She didn’t reply, just tucked her feet up under her, laid her head in my lap, and curled into the fetal position.

I tugged the afghan off the sofa back and draped it over her. Subdued snuffling told me she was already back in dreamland. But I’d sit here a little while longer until I knew she was fully settled. My arm draped over her lightly, her hair pooling between my fingers. I twisted it gently. It was gloriously soft and always smelled like strawberries.

Leaning my head back against the couch, I breathed heavily. I’d just wait a few minutes and then I’d leave Rosie with her.

Chapter twenty-eight

Paisley

The cheery herald of the doorbell tore me from my complex dreams. I rarely had “good” dreams anymore, mostly nightmares or at least weird dreams. (You know, the kind where you’re at your pastor’s house for dinner with your nonexistent family, but then Captain Hook arrives to kidnap you, and your childhood crush pops in to propose at the same time. And the year is somehow 1992. Yeah, that kind of weird.)

I sat up and blinked. Why was I on the couch? I definitely remembered saying good night to Greyson at my door last night. It was sweet the way he walked me to my door. Just like a date . . .

The doorbell chimed again.

“I’m coming,” I grunted, hauling myself up. Then I looked down at myself. Pajamas. At least I had a robe on. “Grey?” I called up the foot of the stairs. The whirl of pipes working rushed overhead. Shower. Looked like I was on my own.

Tightening my belt, I prayed it wasn’t a murderer on my porch at seven in the morning and opened the door. It was no murderer. But it was someone nearly as bad. “Mrs. Gulliver?”

“I’m so sorry, dearie. I know it’s abominably early, but I needed to drop this off before our ladies’ prayer group this morning. How are you feeling?”

I simply stared at the hurricane-force woman, short and plump with her fuschia-streaked white hair pulled back into a severe bun. “I . . . I’m all right.” I fiddled with the belt of my silky robe. Greyson, get down here.

“Thank goodness! I’d have come over sooner, but there’ve been so many emergencies in town this week. I tried to stop by on the weekend, but you were out of town to my surprise. Why, just the other day someone had the audacity to complain about my sweet Jerry. And then there was—”

“Mrs. Gulliver, what brings you by at this hour?”

I could have sagged against the wall in relief when Greyson’s strong voice rolled over me from behind. Not all heroes wore capes. Some of them wore—I eyed his attire—bathrobes, apparently.

Mrs. Gulliver placed a hand to her ample bosom. “I needed to apologize.” She hefted a circular CorningWare dish I had barely noticed earlier into Greyson’s arms. “I feel just awful for making a mountain out of a molehill with y’all necking in the truck. I remember what it’s like to be young and in love. I could have had more grace.”

Had I ever heard Mrs. Gulliver apologize for busting a couple making out? Nope. And why in all of Rivendell were we making out in the first place? I stared at her, cheeks burning. “Wh . . . what?”

She continued like she hadn’t heard me. “Moral conduct is important in this town, and we have a standard to hold to, but I suppose y’all are married after all. Still, it pays to be mindful.”