Page 45 of Here & There

“Hey!” I yell. I run over there, intending to snap my towel again, but whack my toes into one of the chair legs. I trip over it, cursing as pain shoots up my leg at the same time as my other foot slides on the wood, still slick with rain.

The iron chair hits the deck with an explosive bang while I’m still trying to right myself.

I regain my footing but keep slipping, narrowly missing going headfirst into Shelby’s little cabin.

I’m still bent over when the big wooden door swings open and clocks me square in the forehead, then slams shut again.

I inhale sharply as stars explode across my vision.

“What the hell?” a panicky voice comes from inside the room. Shelby.

She’s home. I didn’t hear her because of the shower.

“The door won’t open!” she exclaims, sounding kind of panicked.

“Shelby—” I croak, barely managing to get the towel over me before the door opens again, this time hard enough to knock me backward. I’d be okay if it weren’t for the wet deck surface.

But I’m not okay. My heel slides forward, and I go backward, falling over the chair and slamming with a thunderous crack onto the deck.

All I can think as fuzziness closes in at the corners of my vision isdamn, that girl’s strong.

Chapter 11

Shelby

Dear Jessica,

I saw his privates. I shouldn’t be telling you this, because you’re only twelve, but I’m going to pretend you aged right alongside me for a minute, okay?

I SAW HIS

MOTHERF_____ING

P__N__S.

And I knocked him out.

This is not what I thought I’d be writing to you about. Please forgive me.

—Shelby

P.S. I’m still not thinking about Mom.

For a moment, I just stand there, heart pounding in my ears and hands over my mouth. I just knocked out Alasdair MacGregor.

Mac, I correct myself.

I don’t know why I used his full name. Maybe because I’ve been rolling it around on my tongue ever since I learned it today. Maybe because I purposefully downloaded a book on the e-reader I normally only use for business material where the hero has that name. It’s a historical romance, and the hero spends 90 percent of his time either topless in a kilt or naked in bed with his voluptuous political prisoner. Yes, it’s obscenely spicy.

But now Alasdair MacGregor is lying on his back on his deck, fully passed out.

“Mac!” I say, looking away. Or should I look at him? What do I do? Check on him? Cover him up?

Mac groans.

Relief thumps through me as I rush over to him.

But the ground is slippery and freezing, and when I try to stop next to him, I slip myself. I land hard on my knees next to his head.