I mean, I didn’t even know my voice could hit an octave that high. I’d be impressed with myself, if I weren’t nearly peeing my pants in unabashed, girly terror.
The scream shatters the midnight quiet, instantly waking Boo from his slumber. Not to be left out, he promptly begins barking his little head off, leaping from the couch to stand guard at my feet, as though he, in all his five pound glory — at least a pound of which is pure fur — has the intimidation tactics of a Pit Bull, rather than a Pomeranian.
His whole body lifts into the air with the force of each bark.
Yip-jump, yip-jump, yip-jump.
Very intimidating to the man about to rob, rape, or kill me, I’msure.
I’m still screaming — and quickly backpedaling away because,hello, there’s a strange man in my house — when I register that he’sbig.
Not just tall, but muscular. Even in the dark I can see the outline of his shoulders, the triangular slope of his torso narrowing to a V at his hips. For a split second, I wonder if his face is equally well proportioned.
Good lord.
I’ve started questioning the hotness of home invaders. I really need to get laid.
A low curse vibrates from the man’s mouth, but I barely hear it over the sound of my own screams as I back away. When I see him take another step toward me, my indiscernible babbles of panic turn into words.
“Stay away! Don’t come any closer!”
Hands held out in front of me, heart in my throat, I try not to freak out as he takes yet another stride in my direction.
“Take whatever you want, just don’t hurt—Eeeek!”
My words are cut off as my feet catch on my discarded high heels, knocking me off balance. I feel myself start to trip backwards, head over feet, and I know I’m going to crack my head on the coffee table on my way down, which is probably going to dent the oak anddefinitelygoing to knock me unconscious. Or trigger some kind of cerebral hemorrhage, from which I’ll bleed out and die. Alone, with only Boo to witness my passing into the afterlife, as this man steals my valuables to sell on Boston’s black market.
Death by table.
God, I hope Parker doesn’t include that in my obituary.
Time seems to slide into slow motion as I fall through the air, arms windmilling, helpless to stop my descent. My eyes slam closed as my face contorts into a wince, already anticipating the pain of impact. Any second now, my skull will crack against that table and my fragile life will flicker and die faster than a candle in the wind.
Hey, maybe Sir Elton will write a song about me…
Great. I’m going to die, and my last thought is of a sassy gay man. If that isn’t a testament to the pathetic nature of my love life, I’m not sure what is.
I’m so preoccupied with my impending doom, it takes me a minute to realize I’m still alive.
The impact I was so sure would steal my breath simply… never came.
In fact, even my descent has halted.
I’m hovering mid air, locked in what feels like a set of steel bands.
Except they aren’t steel bands.
They’rearms.
Really freaking muscular arms.
Arms that, if I weren’t a click away from death, I’d have to admit feel really good wrapped around me.
My eyes are still pressed closed, but I hear the distinct sound of a low, pissed-off male voice muttering close to my ear.
“Fucking Christ, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
Recognition jolts into me harder than a punch to the gut. Every muscle in my body freezes like liquid nitrogen has been shot through my veins. My heart actually stutters inside my chest, its equilibrium totally and completely thrown off by the proximity of this man who, abruptly, I know is not an intruder.