Gretchen lay across the sofa and flipped through the channels. There was absolutely nothing worth watching on. Maybe if she were interested in screeching idiots fighting over who was the father of whose baby, or perhaps if she cared about how to clean up spills with no residue, but barring those things, there was nothing on TV.
Kyros stepped into the doorframe. He took one look at her, turned around, and strode away. He hadn’t said two words to her in the last two days—ever since they’d shared that kiss. Gretchen sat up to adjust the pillow. On a whim, she punched it. But once she got started, she couldn’t seem to stop. An image of Kyros’s face flashed in her mind—his handsome, rugged, face with the stupid scowl. “Idiot, jerk, butt wipe…” She punched with each insult, each one getting progressively fouler, until she finally ran out of names to call him.
Kicking her feet up on the couch, she slammed her head back onto the pummeled pillow and glared at the ceiling. Maybe she should check Facebook. Perhaps she could squeeze some enjoyment from social media.
She turned on her phone and opened the app. It looks like Carrie—her old high school cheerleading captain—just had her second kid. Whoopee for her. Oh and Hal… *click* unfriend. Who cared who—oh, excuse me—what Hal was doing? Her brother, Matt, just pulled the biggest prank of the century. He put bras and tutus on Tim Tebow, Danny Wuerffel, and Steve Spurrier—well, on their Heisman statues at Griffin Stadium at least. He even gave them wigs and a makeover. He posted pictures to prove it—and got fined two hundred dollars. If he hadn’t posted the evidence on Facebook, he might have gotten away with it. If he called, she wouldn’t answer. He just hit her up for a hundred bucks two weeks ago. There was no way she’d spot him two hundred for stupidity.
Gretchen stood and turned off her phone. Stepping toward the window, she wanted nothing more than to pull up the blinds and look out. Pallas caught her last time she’d done that and gave her a thirty-minute lecture about safety. She frowned, considering whether or not it was worth another reprimand.
Gretchen seriously needed to get out of this funk. Cabin fever had never agreed with her. She was a free spirit, a social being. She was not meant to be kept cooped up in a house for days at a time.
If only she had some work she could do, but losing your job meant no work.
The doorbell rang.
Pausing in surprise for just a moment, she sprinted for the door. She had every intention of beating her jailers to it before they could hide her away from the threat of an Avon lady.
“Gretchen,” Kyros shouted from down the hall. “Get away from that door.” He strode toward her, his expression livid.
She glared right back. “I was going to look through peephole before answering. I’m not stupid, Kyros.”
“Go back and watch TV. I’ll handle this.”
“Listen, I don’t know what kind of backward culture you come from, but no one gives me orders. I’m getting sick—”
“Do you have a death hope?”
“A what?”
“Do you want to die?”
“Oh, you mean death wish. And yes, I’m on the verge right now, I’ll have you know. One more day cooped up in this house, and I’ll shoot myself and save the gunman the trouble.”
Kyros frowned at her.
The doorbell rang again.
Gretchen stepped past Kyros and looked through the lens. A short, dark woman stood on the doorstep. A small child squirmed in her arms. Gretchen pulled the door open. Kyros yanked her back and pushed her behind him.
