Chapter 22
[ 503 words ]
Chapter 22:
“Caroline.” Jarrod cut her off. His voice shifted, the softness vanishing, replaced by the immovable authority of a commander. “Because they are unstable, I need to handle this personally. I am securing your perimeter. Wait for me.”
Click.
The line went dead.
Caroline pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at the black screen in absolute horror. She dropped her face into her hands, letting out a muffled groan of despair.
She threw the quilt off, jumped out of bed, and sprinted toward her closet. She had exactly twenty-nine minutes to prepare for the hurricane that was about to hit her house.
Caroline flew down the stairs like a tornado. She sprinted into the living room, frantically grabbing the scattered magazines, fluffing the flattened sofa cushions, and kicking a stray pair of her father’s slippers under the armchair. Her heart was beating so fast it felt like it was going to crack her ribs.
Mrs. Thompson walked out of the kitchen, carefully balancing a steaming teacup on a saucer. She stopped and stared at her daughter’s manic cleaning.
“What on earth has gotten into you?” her mother asked, frowning. “Are you going on another blind date? Because if it’s Preston, you need to wear the blue dress.”
𝘔о𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝘃𝖾𝘭𝘀 оո 𝘨𝖺𝗅ո𝗼𝘷e𝗹𝗌.с𝘰𝗆
Caroline shoved a stack of mail into a drawer and slammed it shut, not looking up. “No, Mom. Someone is coming over.”
Before Mrs. Thompson could ask who, a deep, resonant rumble vibrated through the floorboards. It was the sound of a massive, high-performance engine pulling up right outside their house. A second later, the heavy, solid thud of a car door shutting echoed through the quiet suburban street.
Mrs. Thompson walked over to the front window and peeked through the horizontal blinds. She gasped, her hand flying to her chest.
“Good heavens,” she whispered.
Parked illegally against their curb was a brand-new, gleaming black Cadillac Escalade, its windows tinted pitch black. A man in a sharp suit—K.C. Bell—was standing at the open trunk, pulling out several large, beautifully wrapped gift boxes.
Ding-dong.
The crisp chime of the doorbell rang through the house like a death knell.
Mrs. Thompson spun around, her eyes wide with panic. “Is that a debt collector? Caroline, what kind of trouble are you in?”
Caroline took a deep, shaky breath. “It’s not a debt collector, Mom. It’s the man I married.”
Mrs. Thompson’s teacup rattled violently against the saucer. She let out a high-pitched shriek. “Don’t you dare open that door! I am calling 911!”
Caroline ignored her. She turned and power-walked toward the foyer. She needed to intercept Jarrod before he could say something that would give her mother a heart attack.
She rushed to the foyer, her mind racing. As the doorbell chimed again, she yanked the door open with too much force, lost her balance on the threshold, and stumbled forward.
She fell straight out the doorway.
Jarrod Romero was standing on the porch. He had shed his military uniform for a stunning, tailored dark gray cashmere overcoat that made his shoulders look impossibly broad. He looked like royalty—cold, untouchable, and devastatingly handsome.
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