Page 9 of Falling for Mr. Wrong
But it’s too late now.
The glow of the Lawson’s porch light comes into view, and I pull in fast, gravel spitting under the tires. I kill the engine, step out into the cold, and face the house where Damien is almost certainly inside, completely unaware of the hurricane I just spun his name into.
But not for long.
Chapter Four
Damien
The miter saw whines down, the last cut of the night done. I set the piece of wood aside and flex my fingers, the muscles in my forearm twitching from hours of holding steady for precision cutting.
From the kitchen comes the rustle of paper containers and the metallic scrape of a fork. Ronnie’s halfway through the leftover lo mein we picked up after leaving the hardware store earlier. He eats like a man who thinks food’s going to vanish if he looks away.
“You got any more of those spring rolls?” he calls.
“No,” I say, eyeing my cuts for any imperfections.
He makes a disappointed noise, slurping noodles. “Man, we’ve been busting ass in here all day. You could at least stock the fridge with beer and snacks.”
“I did. I even got it running just for you. But you’ve been eating all the snacks,” I remind him.
Before he can fire back, a set of headlights sweeps across the front room, throwing long shadows over the bare walls. Tirescrunch hard over gravel, and I glance toward the window out of habit.
Ronnie leans back in his chair, peering through the doorway. “That your secret admirer pulling in?”
“You know that’s the furthest thing from the truth,” I say, reaching for the sander.
The headlights cut out, leaving only the glow of the porch bulb. A sharp, quick knock follows. Three hard raps, no pause.
Ronnie grins. “Oh, that’s someone who means business.”
I set the sander down, wiping my hands on a rag. Whoever it is, they’re not coming at this hour for a neighborly hello. The house is still cold enough that my breath ghosts in the air as I cross the foyer.
When I open the door, the wind cuts in… and so does Lyla Hart.
She’s flushed from the cold, her dark hair mussed by it, hazel eyes bright in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature. She doesn’t wait for an invitation, just pushes past me into the foyer, arms folded tight.
Behind me, Ronnie calls, “Evening, neighbor,” around a mouthful of noodles.
Her gaze flicks toward him before snapping back to me. “Um… we need to talk. Now.”
The door swings shut behind her with a solid thud. She keeps her coat on, pacing two steps into the foyer before stopping like she’s not sure if she wants to be here at all.
“You always knock like you’re trying to break in?” I ask, hanging the rag on my tool belt.
“This isn’t a social call,” she shoots back. Her voice is tight, controlled in that way people sound when they’re barely hanging onto it.
From the kitchen, Ronnie swivels in his chair to get a better look. “What’d he do?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly, even though her eyes stay locked on mine.
Ronnie grins like he’s not buying it. “Looks like something.”
I give him a look over her shoulder that meansshut it, but he just goes back to his lo mein, humming.
I glance back at her. “What’s wrong?”
Her hands look like they’re balled up inside her coat pockets. She shifts her weight, the rubber soles of her boots squeaking against the wood. “I need to tell you something before you hear it from anyone else.”
