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His side of the bed was empty and if the sun streaming through his curtains was anything to go by, it was late. I leaned over toward the bedside table looking for a clock and I found my phone and a note instead.

A glance at my phone revealed it was just after one in the afternoon and I had a bunch of missed calls and texts that hadn’t woken me up because not only did Forde put my phone on charge, but he’d also put it on silent.

I tried to be annoyed at him taking management of my current affairs, but I didn’t really feel annoyed. I felt … cared for.

Which was even scarier.

I skimmed his note.

Babe, I had to go next door to do some work. Call me when you wake up and I’ll come help you because you need to stay off that foot. I’ve called the docs and they’re expecting you. You need antibiotics and a set of crutches. I’ll take you. Call me. Do not get out of bed without my help. Please.

Your friendly neighborhood mechanic.

I slumped back against the pillows, clutching Forde’s note, a million emotions and thoughts rushing at me at once.

First was the terrifying knowledge that some unknown entity had broken into my house last night, at worst to murder me and at best to torment me. I couldn’t go home, and afterward, I’d been too scared to sleep alone, and Forde had known that, even if I was too stubborn to admit it again after having already done so three months ago in Aberdeen.

I was worried I wasn’t as strong as I thought I was.

It frightened me to think I was the kind of woman who needed a man around to make her feel safe.

In my self-flagellation, I mulishly got out of bed without calling Forde for help. Thankfully, he’d moved the heavy chair out of the doorway when he left so I didn’t have to contend with that, but I basically had to hop down the hall to his bathroom. By the time I sat on the toilet, I was sweating with exhaustion and exertion. And my foot was killing me.

It took me twice as long to get washed without soaking my foot and to change into the only clothes I had with me. Making it downstairs seemed to take forever, and I almost fell near the end, having to catch myself on my bad foot.

Grunting and blurting expletives from the pain, I hopped into Forde’s kitchen to look for painkillers. Once I’d downed those, I ignored my rumbling belly and hopped toward the exit.

This morning, Forde had told me he’d fucked up and he’d done work on himself while I’d been traveling.

As much as I didn’t want to be, I was endlessly curious about what that meant, so I was determined he was going to feed me while he explained himself. I promised myself I was just looking for a distraction from the nightmare of last night, and Forde had offered me one on a platter. It had nothing to do with any lingering feelings I had for the man.

Nothing at all.

Even though the garage was just next door, I felt like an eejit hopping my way over to it. The rolling doors were open on both sides, and I hopped once more onto the concrete forecourt and saw a pair of feet sticking out from under a Fiat.

They were way too small to be Forde’s feet.

“Hullo?”

There was a clatter and then hands pushed against the car. A girl rolled out from underneath on a creeper.

I recognized her. I’d seen her several times in Pages & Perks and wondered who she was. I’d asked Paisley MacDuff, who worked there, and was surprised when she relayed the girl was called Caoimhe and she worked for Forde. He’d hired her and her mum, and they lived above the garage. Forde had told me he hired help, but I hadn’t really thought he’d meant help help. Like he was finally trying to make room to have a life outside of work and volunteering? Maybe? Is that what he meant when he said he’d been working on himself?

Caoimhe’s expression flattened as she stood to face me. She was petite and pretty with her blond hair plaited into two braids that made her look even younger.

She sneered, so I assumed she knew who I was. “What do you want? Forde is working.”

There was something decidedly possessive in her tone and manner that irritated me on top of her obvious contempt. This girl didn’t know me from Adam. Her possessiveness of Forde needled my own. “I woke up and Forde was gone,” I said pointedly. “Is he here?”

Caoimhe’s expression visibly fell.

“Well?”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “You’re the woman who shagged that serial killer, right? How the hell do you not know you were shagging a serial killer?”

I blanched just as a familiar deep voice barked Caoimhe’s name.

Forde strode out from the back of the garage, his ire so obvious I almost felt bad for the wee cretin.