Page 9 of Unbound

Or try to escape.

But there’s no freaking way I’m leaving voluntarily. Not when I’m sitting on a possible goldmine. And since Walker thinks I’m a big fat liar pants—rightfully so—I have to treat tonight like it might be the only chance I get to find what I’m looking for. It would be so much easier if I knew what that was, but it’s okay. Everything is fine. I’ve totally got this.

Probably.

Sticking to the outside edges of the steps since I noticed a couple creaky places in the middle on the way up, I make my way downstairs. I didn’t get a full look at the layout of Walker’s house, but it seems really similar to Maren’s, so I’m guessing the office is on the main floor at the front.

I’m also guessing the office is the best place to start my search, so I head that way, passing a formal dining room, a fancy living room, and a powder room, before finally finding what I’m looking for.

A smile curves my lips. “Bingo,” I whisper.

I move a little faster on my way inside, anticipation and hope brewing in my belly as I aim for the desk at the center of the room. Crouching behind it, I silently slide the first drawer open and discover I have a problem.

Since my car is still parked at Maren’s house, I don’t have any of my stuff, including the tiny flashlight I need to actually be able to see anything I find.

“Shit.” I squint around the dark room, searching shadowy shelves and barely discernable table tops for anything that might help cut through the blackness making my task impossible. I’m about two seconds from just giving in and turning on the desk light, when my eyes land on a collection of candles adorning a low table situated beside an armchair.

“Aha.” I hustle to the spot and crouch down. Fingers gripping the smooth wood knob of the table’s single drawer, I cringe a little as I pull it open, trying—and failing—to soften the screech of antique unwaxed wood against antique unwaxed wood.

The motion feels like it takes forever. When it’s finally open, I go still, holding my breath as I listen for any sign Walker heard the evidence of my snooping and has decided to investigate the strange sound coming from his office. I count to thirty, ears straining. When I don’t hear anything, I exhale and slide one hand into the dark abyss of the space, hoping to grab onto a stick lighter and not one of those rechargeable electric versions.

But what my fingers connect with is a small box sporting an oddly rough side.

I pull it out, holding it up in the dim moonlight filtering through the window. There’s just enough illumination to confirm my suspicions.

“Seriously?” I whisper. What sort of person uses matches in this day and age?

I guess beggars can’t be choosers, and I’m for sure at the begging point. Probably a little past it.

I leave the drawer open, since I need to put everything back where I found it to avoid raising Walker’s suspicions, and crawl my way back to the desk. Kneeling behind it, I light the first match. It flares to life, and I work quickly, opening a drawer and sifting through the contents, finding nothing interesting. By the time I’m finished with the next one, what’s left of my fire has crept down the wood and is warming my fingers. I blow it out, waving the charred stick around a minute to cool it down before tucking it into the pocket of my oversized sweats.

Then I light another match and move to the next drawer, repeating the whole process. All I find is more generic office supplies and a few checkbooks.

Who uses checkbooks when it’s so easy to pay bills online? Obviously the same guy who uses matches.

If I didn’t already know exactly how old Walker McKinley is, what I’m finding would certainly make me think he’s way older than thirty-eight. Because in the next drawer, I dig through a box of heartburn medication, a stash of eyedrops, and a small bag of plastic tooth flossers.

“What in the old man trapped in the hottest fucking body ever is going on here?”

I blow out yet another match, flailing around to cool it before stuffing it into my pocket with his friends. Then I scoot around the rolling chair to reach the other bank of drawers. I cautiously ease the lowest one open, sitting crisscross applesauce on the fancy rug separating my ass from the hardwood. Pulling out another match, I snap it down the textured side of the box, ready to investigate another bin of boringness.

Instead, I end up coming face to glowing face with a very pissed-off looking Walker McKinley.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

His question isn’t loud or menacing, but it still scares the shit out of me, and I drop the flaming bit of wood aiding my investigation right into my lap, where it lands directly on the bunching of fabric at my crotch.

“Shit.” I go straight into panic mode, my short-circuiting brain deciding being set on fire is the scariest of the threats I’m currently facing. I don’t think my actions through, or come up with a game plan, I just go into automatic. My elementary school teachers would be disappointed as hell in me, because instead of stop, drop, and rolling, I shoot to my feet and shove the pants down to my ankles before kicking them away, trying to get the smoldering fabric off my body as quickly as possible so I don’t⁠—

Fucking hell. I’m standing in front of Walker, wearing nothing but a T-shirt, when my mind finally catches up and decides I might have overreacted.

Just a little.

Now, it’s much more accurately zeroing in on the biggest problem in the room. The problem that’s very unamused by me right now.

Walker rises from the crouch he was in, slowly stretching to his full height. I crane my neck to look up at him, and it only amplifies the bite of fear nipping at my stomach.

It also amplifies the surge of heat pooling in a much lower location. I should not be so attracted to this man. Especially since he hates me and thinks I’m out to get him.