Free Incidental Contact (Those Devilish De Marco Men) by Eden Connor

lights, she finally worked up the courage to peek, but when she looked up, he was on the other side of the counter. “Towels are in the bathroom and there’s plenty of hot water. Make yourself at home. Good night.”
    Not how she’d thought this dream might end.

Chapter Six
    A loud shriek ripped the silence. Eric jerked upright, heart pounding. Sweat trickled down the side of his face, growing cold from the chill in his bedroom. His first thought was of Lila. Had something gone wrong with the baby? But the siren wasn’t the wail of an ambulance. The racket was coming from inside his house. His smoke alarm made a low, continuous drone, nothing like the wail piercing his eardrums. He didn’t have a burglar alarm. Sounded like some innocent machine was being tortured. In his loft.
    Loft. The memory of confused brown eyes swept the cobwebs from his brain. The god-awful noise had to be Amy’s alarm. Collapsing against one pillow, he clamped another over his head, waiting for her to hit the snooze button. A minute crawled by. The brain-curdling sound didn’t relent. He flung the pillow aside to glare at the clock beside his bed.
    Who the fuck sets an alarm for five in the morning? He’d expected a college kid to sleep in. After two solid minutes of auditory torture, Eric decided she was either deaf or dead. He prayed she was still breathing. So he could fucking kill her for taking her sweet time turning off her alarm.
    What the hell was I thinking, bringing her here?
    Waiting impatiently for silence to resume, he wondered what he’d tell Dan and Colton—much less Lila or Cynda—about his sudden urge for a roommate. Lying on his back, glaring at the ceiling in the dark, he knew Dan would see Amy’s car when he left for work. His brother would recognize the Honda, too. Knowing who drove what vehicle was second nature to a small town mechanic. He’d almost rather talk to the circuit solicitor today than have one more conversation where his brothers called him a dumbass. He yanked the pillow over his head again, but the piercing sound seemed to have pissed off his conscience. That bitch was screaming nearly as loud as Amy’s alarm.
    You hurt her last night. His conscience didn’t seem to care he’d had little choice in the matter.
    I’m not sexy. The memory of her plaintive whisper crept under his ire. The fuck you’re not. He flung the pillow aside and glared at the ceiling. If she didn’t turn off her damn clock, he was going up those steps to paddle her ass. If she’d set an alarm, then she had somewhere to be, though God only knew where the fuck that could be at this hour. So why wasn’t she getting up?
    For a woman standing about five-two barefoot, Amy Sizemore had the potential to become about fifteen feet worth of trouble. Of course, he’d gone looking for this particular trouble. But why?
    “Amy! Turn that damn alarm off!” Eric rolled onto his knees and pounded the wall behind the bed.
    The blaring noise stopped. Blessed silence settled over him like a second quilt.
    He sighed, flopped back onto the mattress, and stretched. He closed his eyes and waited for his heartbeat to slow. What if the lawyer tells us he’s made a deal with John to do a year in prison? Or he’s going to recommend probation?
    Eric’s stomach knotted. His eyelids felt like window shades, snapping open. He sat up and hurled his pillow. He knew from bitter experience, he’d be unable to go back to sleep. For weeks, he’d been waking while it was still dark, feeling like he’d had rocks for supper. Might as well get his ass up and go fetch the steamer trunks for Amy’s clothes.
    The small voice piped up again. You want her here.
    “Brought her here, didn’t I?” he muttered, stomping into the bathroom, not bothering to turn on a light.
    He felt dog-tired and his stomach was a roiling pit, but peering through the bathroom window, the charcoal sky revealed the fog floating over the geothermal spring. Squinting, he could just