Page 14 of Gold Rush

I creep over to the window, heartbeat thundering in my ears. Peer outside, watching a nondescript black sedan roll toward the front door. It’s not a vehicle I recognize.

I glance at my phone screen, which has dimmed. I tap to wake it, and the phone starts ringing.

I hiss a swear.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?” The calm voice asking the question doesn’t relax me much.

“I think someone is trying to break into the house I’m staying at,” I reply, whispering like the intruder might be able to hear me as I tiptoe over to grab a poker from the stand next to the fireplace.

The emergency operator asks for my location, still sounding calm.

I rattle off the address as I tiptoe over to the doorway, peering into the front hall. I didn’t reset the alarm after arriving earlier. The green light blinks cheerfully.

I take a step forward, intending to switch it to armed, when there’s commotion outside. A door slams. I hear the scrape of metal against metal, like someone is picking the lock.

“We’re sending a unit over immediately, ma’am.”

I can hardly hear the woman’s voice over the blood pounding in my ears. Should I hide? Try to scare them off? They probably think no one is home, so if I⁠—

The door swings open, revealing a tall figure, backlit by the sinking sun.

I squint, then recognition hits. A disconcerting combination of relief and uncertainty follows, joining the adrenaline streaming through my veins.

The good news: I’m not about to be attacked by a burglar.

The bad news: I’m tipsy, wearing pajamas, and Flynn Parks is here.

“Never mind. Everything’s fine. Thanks.” I hang up quickly.

Flynn’s head jerks left, following the sound of my voice to where I’m standing in the opening that leads straight into the living room. He blinks once, then again, the front door wide open behind him.

I march forward before he can let all the air-conditioning out and allow every mosquito in. Slam it shut. Then turn to face Flynn. “What are you doing here?”

Flynn doesn’t reply right away. He’s staring at the poker I’m holding in addition to my phone, a wrinkle appearing on his forehead. Next, he surveys the silk pajama set I’m wearing—shorts and a tank top, no bra.

“Kind of warm for a fire.”

I spin in place, hiding the heat creeping across my cheeks, so I can return the poker to its proper place in the living room.

“What are you doing here?” I repeat as I approach the fireplace. It’s easier to talk to Flynn when I’m not looking at him.

He answers this time. “Needed a place to crash tonight.”

When I turn around, Flynn has followed me into the living room. He runs a hand through his hair, mussing short strands as he glances around. His eyes linger on the open book and half-empty glass I abandoned to prepare for a break-in.

“Your parents have a house here,” I state.

“So do yours.”

I stiffen. “They weren’t expecting me until tomorrow.”

Flynn’s expression calls my flimsy excuse out for what it is, but he’s uncharacteristically considerate enough not to say so aloud. He nods.

I don’t like him being nice to me. There’s no way he hasn’t heard what Carson did. Everyone else has, and Flynn is popular, adored, and well connected. Someone probably told him what happened before I found out.

“My aunt and uncle said I was welcome to stay here anytime,” I add passive-aggressively.

“I figured,” Flynn drawls. “Since you don’t do anything without permission.”