Colleen Collins - Lightning Strikes

And in the latter, she saw her bed. Her beautiful, fantasy-drenched bed.

It sat in the center of the room, sparkling from the sunlight that fell in yellow slants through blinds on the window on the back wall. The streams of light fired spots of gold and copper on the brass. Blaine just had to stop and take in an appreciative breath at the sheer majesty of it.

She sneezed. Pulling another tissue from her pocket, she swiped at her nose and glanced again at the window. Sure enough, it was cracked open.

Enough to let in a flood of pollen.

Time to pop another allergy pill.

She typically took only one a day, but today she’d taunted the pollen gods by spending the better part of this afternoon outside—walking to Jerome’s, walking to the travel agency to cash in her ticket, hanging outside Henry’s, her dad’s buddy’s, to borrow the pickup. Which had no air-conditioning, so she’d driven over here with the window rolled down.

But before taking more medicine, she wanted to quickly scope out the bed, see how it was assembled.

She headed toward the magical, sexy object.

Crackle.

She looked down. She’d stepped on some big leaf.

In her mind, she heard Milly’s raspy voice. “Be careful of his plant.”

Blaine gingerly lifted her foot and eyed the humongous leaf. Had to be the size of a dinner plate. Her gaze traveled to where it was attached to a vine that curled along the floorboard to the far corner of the room. There, it led up to a clay pot, that housed some Jack-and-the-Beanstalk number with more leafy vines that coiled up the wall and along the top of the window.

That’s no plant. That’s a roommate.

Blaine leaned over, and ever so gently, pushed the vine closer to the floorboard so there’d be no more accidental steppages. She momentarily pondered how the delivery guys hadn’t destroyed part of the plant, which only made Blaine feel all the guiltier for stepping on it.

Well, just because I could play sports didn’t mean I was coordinated in everyday life. How many times had she knocked over a vase or tracked mud and dirt into the house?

Setting down her toolbox, she swiped at her suddenly watering eyes.

Damn allergies. She needed to see before she could even scope. She’d take a pill and hope it kicked in fast. With the way she was feeling, she’d wanted to post-pone this bed delivery adventure, but she had to take care of it today because Sonja had hinted about all kinds of maid-of-honor and sisterly tasks up until Saturday, the day of the wedding.

Blaine retraced her steps to the kitchen. There, she opened several cupboards, which were more sparse than the rest of this guy’s apartment. A few plates, bowls, cups and water glasses. She filled a glass with tap water, then retrieved her plastic vial from her shirt pocket. Tapping out a pill, she popped it into her mouth and washed it down.

On the way back to the bedroom, an object on the bookshelf caught her eye. She paused and picked it up. An old, chipped pocket knife. Why keep an old tool around? She loved her tools the way other girls loved clothes and makeup. And one of her pet rules was to keep her tools in mint condition, clean and ready to use. She’d never keep an old, battered pocketknife.

Blaine turned the knife over in her hands. Besides the plant, this object seemed to be the only decoration in this place.

Placing it back on the shelf where she found it, Blaine headed back to the bedroom, yawning.

For the next fifteen minutes, she checked out how the bed was bolted together. Then she opened her toolbox and extracted a wrench.

Sleepy. I’m so sleepy.

Blinking, she positioned the wrench around the bolt. She yawned again, a long tired yawn. This wrench felt so heavy. Her eyelids felt heavier. The medication was unusually strong.

Foggily, she thought back. She took one pill after buying the bed. Another before driving Henry’s truck over here. And one a few minutes ago.

Ohhhhh. Instead of her usual one, she had inadvertently taken three.

Distant thunder broke the silence.

An oncoming summer storm. The rain would be great, but the preceding winds would only kick up more pollen. She could already smell the ragweed, the flowers, the…

Ah-chooo!

She extracted her tissue and blew her nose.

When will that last pill kick in? Better take a breather, rest, wait for the storm to pass.

Besides, if she tried to keep working on this bed in her druggy state, she’d undoubtedly keel over on that plant and do far more than simply crunch a leaf.

Blaine hoisted herself on top of the bed. Ahhhhhh. This mattress was so big and soft, it was like sitting on a cloud. A sensuous, seductive cloud that promised a world of fantasy and dreams come true…

Too hot to sleep in my clothes. She began tugging off her T-shirt.

A few minutes later, Blaine fell back, barely aware of her head hitting the pillow.

THE TAXI DROVE AWAY, its motor fading into the night air as Donovan Roy unlocked the door. A breeze riffled the air, infusing it with the rich scent of earth and grass. Must have rained earlier. He was partial to this time of year in Colorado, when an afternoon storm could rush in like a giddy schoolgirl, all breathless and flustered, then unleash its passion like a seasoned woman.

He shifted his overnight bag on his shoulder, catching another scent. Roses. Or was it honeysuckle? No, that had been in San José. Lilacs? Could be. They’d grown in wild abundance, purple and fragrant, outside his hotel room in Cincinnati.

San José.

Cincinnati.

As he shoved the door open with his shoulder, his thoughts struggled. Which city was he in this time?

His memory was always sharp, damn near perfect, except when he pushed himself, mentally and physically, to the limit. Shouldn’t have taken this last job. Should have taken a break. But he’d needed the money.

He paused on the threshold, squinting at the shadows in the room.

Hell, it’s home!

He kicked shut the door behind him and dropped his bag, which hit the hardwood floor with a solid whoomp. He tugged off one of his boots and tossed it next to the bag.

God, I’m wiped.

He reminded himself that despite such dog-tired moments, he liked doing what he wanted, where he wanted, when he wanted. Liked keeping his boots next to the front door, liked tossing back a shot while listening to the blues, liked keeping the ringer on his phone permanently off.

Which was why he liked his consulting gigs. They fit his lifestyle to a T. No playing the corporate games, no molding himself to society’s expectations. As long as he met his deadlines and produced quality work, he could wear his hair longer, dress in jeans and T-shirts, take off a few days when the mood struck.

He yanked off the other boot, then remained bent over, arching his back to release some tension. His body ached from folding his six-three frame into airline seats, taxi seats. This past year, he swore he’d visited more cities than the president himself. Wonder if it’s the same for the big guy— After a while, people and cities blurred into a swirl of shapes and voices.

Especially when Donovan pulled an all-nighter, like he’d done last night in San José.

He straightened, tossing the other boot in the vicinity of the first, then glanced up at the clock on his wall. A slant of moonlight highlighted the chunk of redwood he’d found on the California coast several years ago. Inspired, he’d polished and rigged it to be a clock.

3:00 a.m.

Donovan scratched the stubble on his chin. He’d been up—he squeezed shut his eyes and added the numbers—damn, over forty hours.

His eyes suddenly felt gritty, heavy. Sleep didn’t beckon, it badgered. He absently rubbed his right leg, the damn spot that ached when he pushed his body too hard.