Page 33 of Archer

I took a seat on the couch and opened an internet browser on my phone. Then I went down a research rabbit hole on common stalker mentalities and motives. What did this nut hope to achieve? What was the end goal?

Soon, the creek of floorboards grew repetitive and patterned. I stilled to listen closely.

Harper was pacing in her room.

Thinking about the stalker, too? Or maybe about the way I’d nearly reached for her when she looked at me with such pure trust.

I returned my attention to the phone, trying not to think about Harper in the next room.

And failing miserably.

Chapter 10

Harper

I woke to the smell of coffee.

Disorientation kept me in bed for a moment before the memories flooded back. I was at the cottage. The stalker had been here. And now an unreasonably huge, hot, grumpy Marine would be my constant companion while he and his friends attempted to do what Nashville police refused to try.

I had far too many thoughts and feelings about all of that to process any of it.

So I focused on the delectable scent of fresh brewed coffee drifting under the bedroom door to my nose.

I checked my phone. Six-thirty in the morning. Who got up this early on purpose?

Marines, apparently.

I threw back the covers and padded to the bathroom, grateful I’d at least remembered to bring my robe. The last thing I needed was to run into Archer while wearing the oversized t-shirt and ratty sweats I’d slept in.

The bathroom was spotless. Archer’s toiletries were lined up neatly on one side of the counter, leaving the other half completely clear for me. His towel hung on the rack, still damp from what must’ve been an even earlier shower. Seriously, when did this guy wake up?

Everything about him was organized and efficient.

Living with me would probably give him hives.

I brushed my teeth and washed my face, trying not to think about the fact that Archer had stood in this exact spot an hour ago. Probably shirtless. Definitely wet.

Stop it.

I pulled my hair into a messy bun and headed for the kitchen in fuzzy socks, yoga pants, and a t-shirt that fit well.

Archer stood at the counter, mug in hand, staring out the window at the ocean. He’d dressed in jeans and a dark gray t-shirt. The hems on the sleeves were currently fighting for their lives around his biceps.

Not that I noticed.

“Morning,” I said.

He turned and ran his gaze over me before his expression settled into something neutral. “Coffee’s ready.”

“I could tell.” I moved to the pot and poured myself a cup. “You’re up early.”

“Force of habit.”

“Military thing?”

“Yeah.” He took a sip from his mug. “I did a perimeter check around sunrise. Everything looks good.”

Of course he had. The man had probably been awake for hours.