“No, I haven’t been. But you have. I can hear it in your voice.”

“How?”

“Huskier than normal.”

For a split second, he wondered whether she found that sexy or not. Shaking himself, he said, “I just wanted to see if you made it home. Your dad there with you by now? He must be off work.”

“Yeah, we had Last Meal together. Now I’m just up here in my room.”

“Anslam and I are stoned out of our minds.” The guy gave a thumbs-up from the other end of the bed. “We’re going to carbo-load and crash. It’s going to be fabulous. Anyway, glad you’re tight.”

“Don’t eat too much ice cream. It makes you bloat and then you complain the next day that you’ve lost your girlish figure.”

“I have never done that.”

“Really. Really?”

“Okay, fine,” he muttered.

“And do I need to remind you about the cookie-dough incident.”

Peyton groaned. “I could have sworn I shit my internal organs out.”

“That’s right. I still say you might be lactose-intolerant. Just something to consider. I love you.”

He glanced at Anslam, and didn’t want to say the words back in front of the guy. “Me, too. See you tomorrow—”

“Oh, hey, listen, I found your photograph.”

“My what?”

“Photograph. On the bus. It fell out of your backpack or your pocket or something.”

“I don’t have any photographs to lose, sweet cheeks. But thanks for thinking of me—and if it involves anything naked and female, I’ll take it off your hands free of charge. Just because I’m a straight-up Good Sam like that.”

She laughed. “No. I don’t know what the image is, actually. I thought you dropped it, but guess not. It’s an old-fashioned Polaroid.”

“A Polaroid? Jesus, that’s an antique.”

“Well, anyway, I’ll hold on to it until someone claims it. Have a good day. And you really shouldn’t be smoking up.”

“So you keep telling me. Good day, too, baby.”

As he ended the call, he reached across and put his phone down by that clock. “That is one fine female.”

“What was she talking about? A photograph?”

“I don’t know. Some Polaroid she found on the bus.” He sat up. Stood up. Tried walking. “Wow. That’s some strong-ass shit. Let’s go down to the kitchen the back way so no one sees us bobbing and weaving.”

Chapter Thirty

As Paradise paced around her room in her bare feet, she was careful to go toe-heel, toe-heel, so that she made no noise—although considering how hard her heart was beating, she was surprised she wasn’t waking people up on the other side of the river with the pounding.

Quick stop. Check the time.

Six fifty-eight. Or maybe six fifty-nine—it was hard to be precise with the old clock on her bedside, especially from across the room.

Rubbing her sweaty hands on her blue jeans, she went over and looked at her cell phone. She’d deliberately laid the thing facing up, and she stared at the black screen. She’d put the ringer on mute, but it would vibrate when Craeg called.

Any second.

Really.

Frowning, she bent down and woke the cell up, just in case she’d missed something. Which, granted, would be like someone not noticing a neon billboard in her room. Nope. No missed calls on the screen. No texts, either.

Just to be triple sure, she put her passcode in and checked the call log.

Nothing.

God, this was awful. She felt like she was standing on a parapet, looking at a long way down with nothing to catch herself on. Which was nuts—and a sign that her adrenal gland was waaaaaay over-assessing the threat to her personal safety. For godsakes, she wasn’t going to lose an arm or a leg if he didn’t call like he said he would. She would be perfectly fine.

And jeez, he wasn’t even late yet.

Putting the phone back down, she resumed pacing.

That didn’t last long. Two minutes later, she was back at the cell again.

Nothing.

Turning away, she got pissed at herself. Here she was, making this bid for independence and autonomy, and getting all GRRR about rejecting the glymera stuff—and yet she was worried whether some male called her for what was probably going to be a phone sesh just so he could get off.

Yeah, that really made her a feminist, right there.

Besides, she’d never had an orgasm before. What made him think that he could—

The sound of a snare drum rolling out over by the bedside had her racing back so fast she slipped on the carpet.

“Hello!” she barked as she caught herself.

There was a beat of silence. And then that deep voice, that delicious male voice, was right in her ear: “Where are you in your house.”

She looked around. “My bedroom?”

“Are the lights on.”

“Yes?” Funny, that ostensibly he was asking the questions and she was answering, but the reality was the reverse. She felt like she was the one making the inquiries.

“Get on your bed. Turn off the lights.”

“Okay.” She went over by the door and hit the switch—then she made her way back across and got up on the high mattress, kicking her shoes off and stretching out. “It’s dark.”

Try pitch black.

Craeg made a sound, something she couldn’t identify—and the experience was amazing. With the lights off, it was as if he were right next to her.