Chapter 1
T he numbers flipped over again . She should stop looking. Really. Stop. Looking.
But it was a little bit like telling Ruffles to stop scratching.
Dumb, beautiful mutt. He was going to have to go back in the cone of shame if he didn’t stop messing with his ears.
Kami looked at the digital readout: 1:11. Oh goodie, make a wish.
I wish I could get some freaking sleep .
Punching the pillow didn’t help. Neither did flipping it over. One o’clock would melt into two. Then three into four. Yesterday, she’d finally fallen into a coma about five thirty.
When the alarm went off at 6:45, she’d wished she was dead. The only thing worse than a sleepless night was a sleepless night with a brief crash as a chaser and an early-morning conference call. At least she could work in her jammies.
Her ritual wasn’t working anymore. The long walk with Ruffles at sunset. Brewing a cup of chamomile tea and taking it into a warm bubble bath. “Moonlight Sonata.” “Clair de Lune.” God, the Debussy at the very least should inspire somnolence.
Nothing. Worked.
Sighing, she broke all her rules and patted the right side of the bed, following up with a short, sharp whistle, inviting Ruffles up with her. She’d have to launder the sheets tomorrow—it had been particularly muddy on tonight’s walk—but it was worth it to have a solid presence in bed next to her again.
Sorrow was absolute bullshit.
She’d well passed the get over him guideposts. Had managed to pack up, move to a different state, start a new life all alone. Kami had even managed to find several engaging, attractive men to date along the way. But no matter how wonderful they were, the left side of her bed was still empty. Nobody filled it right.
She loved Ruffles, but he smelled. And snored.
But he is the only part of Philip you kept , she reminded herself.
And that had been her choice. Start over completely. Start fresh.
The heck of it was, she was happy. Theoretically . Job success, check. A new social circle all filled up with intelligent and fun people who shared her passions and challenged her, check. A little house she’d put her stamp on, check.
Check, check, check. Like the ticking of the clock.
No wonder she couldn’t sleep. What reasonably well-adjusted adult, with all the cultural hallmarks of efficient adulting, failed at the number one most basic human function?
Well, maybe it was number two. A person needed food. And air.
Kami was a champ at those, at least: eating and breathing. If only she could master sleeping.
Ruffles emitted a particularly foul bit of air and reminded Kami that muddy paws wasn’t the only reason she kept him off the bed.
You should take him outside . But taking him outside meant putting on a bra. Pants.
And it means you might run into Officer Hot Stuff again, and this time you might actually be able to entice him to leap across the chain link fence and into your empty bed.
“That’s it. No more ‘Claire de Lune,’ you sad sack.” Punching her pillow, she scolded herself for fantasizing about her handsome neighbor. Just thinking his nickname conjured up images that absolutely wouldn’t help her sleep. The hard line of his jaw, always in shadow, tempting her to wonder if he had a dimple. Freckles. Wonder if his mouth was wide and generous or pinched and grim. His voice was low and expressive when it carried over to her yard. It wrapped around her like silver tendrils of smoke. Made her fingers itch for a lighter—but that was just one more thing she’d given up.
Her neighbor was a mystery.
She’d never seen him in the full light of the sun. Hadn’t caught him on a Saturday morning, shirtless and sweaty, pushing a lawn mower over the tiny stamp of a front yard. But she’d seen his hand wrapped around a bottle in the moonlight. Had imagined his throat working to drink it down, and, even more appalling, had imagined that hand on hers. A brush at first, almost accidental. A callused palm snaking
T he numbers flipped over again . She should stop looking. Really. Stop. Looking.
But it was a little bit like telling Ruffles to stop scratching.
Dumb, beautiful mutt. He was going to have to go back in the cone of shame if he didn’t stop messing with his ears.
Kami looked at the digital readout: 1:11. Oh goodie, make a wish.
I wish I could get some freaking sleep .
Punching the pillow didn’t help. Neither did flipping it over. One o’clock would melt into two. Then three into four. Yesterday, she’d finally fallen into a coma about five thirty.
When the alarm went off at 6:45, she’d wished she was dead. The only thing worse than a sleepless night was a sleepless night with a brief crash as a chaser and an early-morning conference call. At least she could work in her jammies.
Her ritual wasn’t working anymore. The long walk with Ruffles at sunset. Brewing a cup of chamomile tea and taking it into a warm bubble bath. “Moonlight Sonata.” “Clair de Lune.” God, the Debussy at the very least should inspire somnolence.
Nothing. Worked.
Sighing, she broke all her rules and patted the right side of the bed, following up with a short, sharp whistle, inviting Ruffles up with her. She’d have to launder the sheets tomorrow—it had been particularly muddy on tonight’s walk—but it was worth it to have a solid presence in bed next to her again.
Sorrow was absolute bullshit.
She’d well passed the get over him guideposts. Had managed to pack up, move to a different state, start a new life all alone. Kami had even managed to find several engaging, attractive men to date along the way. But no matter how wonderful they were, the left side of her bed was still empty. Nobody filled it right.
She loved Ruffles, but he smelled. And snored.
But he is the only part of Philip you kept , she reminded herself.
And that had been her choice. Start over completely. Start fresh.
The heck of it was, she was happy. Theoretically . Job success, check. A new social circle all filled up with intelligent and fun people who shared her passions and challenged her, check. A little house she’d put her stamp on, check.
Check, check, check. Like the ticking of the clock.
No wonder she couldn’t sleep. What reasonably well-adjusted adult, with all the cultural hallmarks of efficient adulting, failed at the number one most basic human function?
Well, maybe it was number two. A person needed food. And air.
Kami was a champ at those, at least: eating and breathing. If only she could master sleeping.
Ruffles emitted a particularly foul bit of air and reminded Kami that muddy paws wasn’t the only reason she kept him off the bed.
You should take him outside . But taking him outside meant putting on a bra. Pants.
And it means you might run into Officer Hot Stuff again, and this time you might actually be able to entice him to leap across the chain link fence and into your empty bed.
“That’s it. No more ‘Claire de Lune,’ you sad sack.” Punching her pillow, she scolded herself for fantasizing about her handsome neighbor. Just thinking his nickname conjured up images that absolutely wouldn’t help her sleep. The hard line of his jaw, always in shadow, tempting her to wonder if he had a dimple. Freckles. Wonder if his mouth was wide and generous or pinched and grim. His voice was low and expressive when it carried over to her yard. It wrapped around her like silver tendrils of smoke. Made her fingers itch for a lighter—but that was just one more thing she’d given up.
Her neighbor was a mystery.
She’d never seen him in the full light of the sun. Hadn’t caught him on a Saturday morning, shirtless and sweaty, pushing a lawn mower over the tiny stamp of a front yard. But she’d seen his hand wrapped around a bottle in the moonlight. Had imagined his throat working to drink it down, and, even more appalling, had imagined that hand on hers. A brush at first, almost accidental. A callused palm snaking
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