I wince as I slide up the window, hoping the soft scrape as it opens won’t wake my dad.
It’s nearly midnight and he’s finally headed to bed.
But he’ll be right back up again at five in the morning.
Because he’s a workaholic.
Considering the hours he spends pursuing his various business ventures, I would swear he loves work more than anything.
Only I know he loves me more.
It’s just that his love is a heavy, stifling blanket intended to keep me warm, but instead, it…
Suffocates.
I exhale and shake that thought out of my mind.
I have five hours.
I have plans to make them count. With Bobby Montgomery.
And…I can see him outside my window—or see the soft flicker of the flashlight on his phone turning on and off, his signal that he’s parked on the road leading into the vineyard and is waiting to meet me.
My heart leaps, thinking of the way he kissed me.
His body lean and hard, his grip tight as he pressed me against the cool metal of his truck. His lips soft and maybe a little too wet, but we were still learning each other and how to kiss and the extra wetness didn’t really bother me anyway. The way he smelled. The rumble of my name in his chest.
Even now I feel the pulse in my belly, between my thighs.
My body knowing where tonight’s going to lead, even if I haven’t really let myself think that far ahead.
A romantic midnight picnic under the stars.
A blanket hidden amongst the grapevines.
Warm summer air flowing through my hair, lips and fingers trailing over my bare skin. Our bodies pressed together and—
I push the fantasy away and focus.
I’m never going to lose my virginity if I don’t get out of this damned house first.
I can’t go out one of the doors downstairs, not without triggering the motion detectors that my father surely activated when I announced I was heading up to bed, and I couldn’t have snuck out before he called it a night because he would have caught me on the exterior cameras.
My only way out—discovered by trial and error—is to climb down from my gilded tower.
So, I shift carefully, pulling one leg up, slipping it over the sill, waiting until my toes are secure on the ledge before I sweep my other leg over. I’ve done this dozens, maybe a hundred times in the years since we moved to California, so I know to take my time, to adjust my grip so it’ll support my weight, and then I heave myself up so that I can reach the tiny lip on the outside of the window were plastic meets glass.
My fingertips connect and I grunt softly as I clutch the pane, allow my body weight to draw it almost all the way down.
Just the barest bit of open space along the bottom so I can get back in.
Then I make my way down to the ground, hooking fingers and toes into the stone facade that makes up the exterior of my house, moving efficiently and confidently—exactly as my climbing instructor has taught me—until my feet are on the dirt and my second story window is just a faint glow above.
“Good job,” I whisper to myself, brushing my hands on my jeans as I stick close to the wall, staying out of sight of the cameras until I can get lost in the rows and rows of grapevines that surround my father’s estate.
“Go!” I hiss when I reach the safest spot to cross, darting through the shadows and reaching the thick covering of the vines.
Then I’m no longer careful as I run through the grape-laden plants, knowing they’ll hide my movements, mentally keeping track of how many rows I’ve crossed so I know when to turn out to the main road.
And out to Bobby.
And his old pickup padded with blankets in the back.
And his strong body and insistent kisses and—
I turn, out of breath now but not caring.
Because I can see the shadow of Bobby’s truck, can see the faint glimmer of his cell phone’s flashlight, the outline of his body.
Nerves flutter in my belly and my pace slows.
This is going to change everything.
I know it will.
And…I can’t wait.
“Breathe,” I whisper, pressing my palms flat to my stomach, trying to settle the butterflies within. I exhale, hold my empty lungs for the count of three like I would before I’m about to attempt a tough assent. Then I inhale and move forward again.
Not running.
But walking steadily, heading toward my future, toward me finally getting out from beneath that uncomfortably heavy blanket of my father’s overprotectiveness.
I’m almost an adult.
I can make my own decisions.
I near the end of the road, the night quiet except for the soft shush of the wind through the vines. “Bobby?” I call quietly.
Footsteps on the asphalt, that light shifting.
I frown but push it aside.
Probably, I’m too far away and he can’t hear me over the rustling leaves.
Or he’s playing a game on his phone and is distracted.
I grin and shake my head. Men. Seriously.
And then I keep walking forward, out of the empty space between two rows of vines and step up onto the road—
And freeze, heart suddenly in my throat.
Because it’s not Bobby standing behind a beat-up truck that’s more rust than metal.
It’s a man dressed all in black who’s positioned near a sleek, dark SUV.
And he’s pointing a gun in my direction.
