Nora
The spare key turned in the lock at 9:47 p.m.
I was on the neighbors’ couch in one of Ryan’s old T-shirts and nothing else, legs tucked under me, half-watching a movie with the sound low. The house next door was quiet, the lights off, the cruise still three weeks from ending. Ryan had texted an hour ago that the job site was running late again. I’d locked the front door out of habit. Apparently that didn’t matter.
Grant stepped inside like he owned the place.
He was older than Ryan by at least fifteen years, broader through the shoulders, silver at the temples, wearing a dark henley and jeans. He closed the door behind him, pocketed the key, and looked at me for a long moment—bare thighs, the T-shirt barely covering the tops of them, n*****s already tight from the air conditioning
