Free Death and Relaxation by Devon Monk Page B

But this was my home, my family home. There hadn’t ever been anything that had happened here that I couldn’t deal with.
    Plus, I had a gun, a badge, and any number of monsters and gods at my call, if needed.
    I opened the door—unlocked—and stepped into the dark living room.
    No lights on in the house. No streetlight below on the little gravel cul-de-sac.
    A few steps into the living room and I spotted the backpack thrown on the floor next to the couch.
    Robber? Why would a robber leave a backpack in the living room?
    Transient? All the way up at the top of a hill several streets away from the main roads? Not likely.
    I made a quick search of the living room, office area, kitchen. The faint light from under my bedroom door caught my eye.
    Whoever it was, they were casing my bedroom. And they were being quiet about it.
    I took a quick breath, set myself, and opened the door with one hand, my gun steady.
    “Don’t move,” I shouted, “Police.”
    “Whoa, hold on, hold on!”
    There was a man in my bed. For a wild, happy second, I thought it was Ryder. But that lasted only a second.
    Because I knew who was under my sheets.
    “Cooper?” I said, my voice still loud from the adrenalin.
    Cooper Clark, my ex-boyfriend, had let his blond hair grow out and wore it tied up in a knot at the top of his head. He was the epitome of surfer good looks, clean-shaven with a lean swimmer’s body that he’d decorated with a couple new tattoos bracing his ribs.
    He was shirtless, just the edge of his boxer briefs visible under my blanket, which he had thrown over his hips, both legs sticking out from underneath.
    He was in my bed. Mostly naked.
    My ex-hit-and-run heartache was stretched out in my bed.
    Smiling at me.
    Would this train wreck of a day never end?
    He held up both hands in mock surrender. “Hey, officer,” he said, his eyes slipping to the gun I was still pointing at him, then back to me, to my mouth. He always used to stare at my mouth instead of my eyes. I’d forgotten that. “Did you miss me, Delaney?”
    I lowered the gun and holstered it before I was tempted to squeeze the trigger. A minor injury would be hell on my record, but sure would make me feel better.
    “Cooper,” I said with exaggerated patience. “Why are you here? In my house. In my bed.”
    That charming smile quickly swapped out with an expression of chagrin.
    “The door was open. You never lock it, you know. I thought you were at work, and I wanted to surprise you. Make you dinner. Double garlic chicken lasagna. You’ll love it. You still weren’t home and, well, our bed looked so comfortable.”
    “My bed,” I corrected.
    He shifted his wide shoulders, pushed up to sitting so he could lean against my headboard. “Right. That’s what I meant. Your bed looked so comfortable. Are you mad? Don’t be mad. I just wanted to make you smile. Surprise?” He lifted his hands and grinned.
    Then he shifted off the bed and stood, walking toward me, his eyes on my mouth.
    “I wanted to surprise you.” His smile lit up his soft brown eyes. “I’m back, Del. And this time I’m staying right here. Right where I belong.”
    He stopped in front of me. His strong, long fingers rested on my shoulders. Talented fingers that pressed gently. His touch was familiar, as was the spice of his cologne.
    He’d been a musician—could play any instrument he put those long fingers on. It was a failed application to Juilliard that had sent him into a spiral of self-pity and alcohol in high school. He’d dug himself up out of that and worked for the cable company, making his way up to manager.
    When I thought back on it—and I’d had a year to do just that—he’d never seemed at peace or content with his life even then. He’d rolled through a dozen failed hobbies, two failed business attempts, and had decided it wasn’t his lost chance at Juilliard that was holding him back. It was this town and all the things here—me included—holding him back from his