Sneak peak of Becca Fitzpatrick's Finale!!!
A half hour later, I pulled into my driveway. I live with my mom in a quintessential Maine farmhouse, complete with white paint, blue shutters, and a shroud of ever-present fog. This time of year, the trees blazed fiery shades of red and gold, and the air held the crisp smells of pine sap, burning wood, and damp leaves. I jogged up the porch steps, where five portly pumpkins watched me like sentinels, and let myself in.
“I’m home!” I called to my mom, the light in the living room giving away her location. I dropped my keys on the sideboard and went back to find her.
She dog-eared her page, rose from the sofa, and squeezed me in a hug. “How did your night go?”
“I am officially drained of every last ounce of energy.” I pointed upstairs. “If I make it up to bed, it will be by sheer mental power alone.”
“While you were out, a man stopped by looking for you.”
I frowned. What man?
“He wouldn’t leave his name, and he wouldn’t tell me how he knew you,” my mom continued. “Should I be worried?”
“What did he look like?”
“Round face, ruddy complexion, blond hair.”
Him, then. The man who had a bone to pick with Patch. I fabricated a smile. “Oh, right. He’s a salesman. Keeps trying to get me to commit to senior pictures with his studio. Next thing you know, he’ll want to sell me graduation announcements too. Would it be completely disgusting if I skipped washing my face tonight? Staying awake an extra two minutes at this point is pushing it.”
Mom kissed my forehead. “Sweet dreams.”
I climbed to my bedroom, shut the door, and flopped spread-eagled on my bed. The music from the Devil’s Handbag still pulsed at the back of my head, but I was too tired to care. My eyes were halfway shut when I remembered the window. On a groan, I staggered over and unlatched the lock. Patch could get inside, but I wished him luck trying to keep me awake long enough to elicit a response.
I pulled my blankets up to my chin, felt the soft, blissful tug of a dream beckoning me closer, let it drag me under—
And then the mattress sank with the weight of another body.
“Not sure why you’re so enamored with this bed,” Patch said. “It’s twelve inches too short, four feet too narrow, and the purple sheets aren’t doing it for me. My bed, on the other hand . . .”
I opened one eye and found him stretched out beside me, hands clasped loosely behind his neck. His dark eyes watched mine, and he smelled clean and sexy. Most of all, he felt warm pressed up against me. Despite my best intentions, the close proximity was making it increasingly difficult to concentrate on sleep.
“Ha,” I said. “I know you don’t care how comfortable my bed is. You’d be fine on a pallet of bricks.” One of the downsides of Patch being a fallen angel was that he couldn’t feel physical sensation. No pain, but no pleasure either. I had to be content knowing that when I kissed him, he felt it on an emotional level only. I tried to pretend it didn’t matter, but I wanted him to feel electrified by my touch.
He kissed me lightly on the mouth. “What did you want to talk about?”
I couldn’t remember. Something about Dante. Whatever it was, it seemed unimportant. Talking in general seemed unimportant. I snuggled in closer, and Patch stroked his hand down my bare arm, making a warm tingly sensation shoot all the way to my toes.
