Page 50 of A Cowboy's Twinkling Lights Lasso
He holds up his hands. “What happens in the Underwood Schoolhouse stays in the Underwood Schoolhouse.”
A small laugh escapes my lips as I stroll past him. “You would’ve gotten lucky in the truck if you’d made the right moves.”
His groan chases me to the back of the school. Everyone knows they lock the front door, but no amount of locks or boards can keep the back door sealed.
“Let me go first.” He grabs the back door, and I pry it open enough to squeeze through. “It could be dangerous.”
“How dangerous?” I slip into the darkness.
The air inside is stale. My boots crunch over dirt, and god only knows what else.
“Shit. Flora. Open your flashlight.” I hear the door protest with a series of sharp cracks under the pressure of him parting it.
My flashlight casts eerie shadows on the peeling wallpaper. Dust particles float in the e beam of light.
“Grab this.” He thrusts the picnic basket through the opening.
I stuff the bag with our vodka under my arm and take the picnic basket.
“And this.” His stetson follows.
I direct the light at him and watch with amusement as he grunts and turns sideways, trying to wedge his broad shoulders through. His muscles flex beneath the front of his shirt. The sight makes my heart race.
He finally slips through and can’t hide his frustration. “That’s smaller than I recall.” He stuffs his hat back on his head with an aggravated force.
I shake my head. “You’re bigger. Much bigger.”
A grin splits his mouth. “Much bigger?”
“Much, much bigger.”
His arm scoops my waist and pulls my body flush to his. I almost drop the picnic basket. Heck, I want to drop to the picnic basket.
“Woman, keep that talk up, and we won’t make it to the attic,” he growls.
I’m not opposed, but he lets me go, leaving me hot and bothered and ready to do the hanky panky. He grabs the picnic basket, my hand, and takes the lead.
The wooden stairs creak ominously beneath our feet, slicing through the silence. His light illuminates broken furniture and cobwebs in the corner. I hear a noise as we approach the closet where the secret attic door awaits.
I grab the sleeve of his canvas jacket to stop him. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
I listen and hear a haunting sound from upstairs. “That.” I slap his arm. “That sound. What is it!”
“Let’s go check it out.”
“No, no, no. I don’t want to meet the girl who roams the halls!” I hiss.
He chuckles again, and the sound sends tingles pulsing down my legs. “Where’s the fearless Flora that dragged me up here?”
“Running from the Sherri’s is a fear all on its own.”
Thorn opens the door. It creaks a horror melody. So does each step we take up the spiral staircase.
My heart races. “I’m too old for this.”
We reach the attic and uncover soft music filling the space.
