Samantha Hunter - Talking in Your Sleep...

“I won’t be able to get back to sleep.”

“Why not?”

“I have chronic insomnia, and the nightly chatter hasn’t been helping. I can’t remember the last time I actually was sleeping as soundly as I was before your scream ended that.”

“I. Didn’t. Scream,” she ground out between her teeth. “I don’t talk all night. I don’t talk in my sleep.”

He ran a hand though sandy hair that was cut just the right length, and the gesture made her lose her train of thought for a moment. He had perfect arms. Nicely toned, muscular but not ridiculously so. They were manly arms. She didn’t like the bodybuilder type, though she had no doubt he was strong. What on earth was she doing? She never—or rarely—ogled men like this.

“Listen, fine. You probably don’t snore either, but—”

“Hey! I don’t snore,” she declared stoutly. This much she knew for sure.

“Fine. Still, on the very small, almost impossible chance that it’s you, and that you don’t realize it, could you do me a favor and close your window? Just in case.”

The sarcasm of his tone put her off, but even if it hadn’t, she wasn’t about to change her habits for a stranger.

“No.”

He blinked, standing there looking luscious and confused. Images of what he’d done to her earlier in her dream ran through her head like an X-rated movie, and she had to drop her gaze.

“No? Just like that?”

“It’s hot.”

“Use your AC.”

“I don’t have AC. There’s only one small window unit in the house and it is too noisy. Why don’t you close your window?”

“Why should I close my windows? You’re the one screaming in the middle of the night.”

She squared her jaw, supposing there was no reason not to tell the truth on this one. “Well, I’m not closing my window either—it’s too hot.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

She stifled a yawn, moving toward the door. “I don’t know who you’ve been hearing at night, but people are out on the streets all the time—it was probably something out there.”

“It’s the same voice, saying the same things. In fact, it’s your voice. I’m sure of it.”

Sending him what she thought was the coldest look she could manage, she yanked open the door. “You’re imagining things. Thanks for your concern, but I’d like to go back to bed.”

He moved toward the door, shaking his head, and looking at her with a smile that had her knees buckling. Then she caught herself.

“I’m Rafe by the way. Rafe Moore,” he said slowly, watching her closely as if to catch her up, and she hoped she gave nothing away.

“Good night, Mr. Moore.”

She didn’t offer her own name, and simply arched an eyebrow when he paused, waiting. Blowing out a breath, he nodded once, his lips tightening. She almost felt bad, but she didn’t want to give him one ounce of encouragement.

“Call me Rafe. We’re neighbors, after all. Good night.”

Joy sank down by the door, utterly mortified. She’d held her own, but her dreams were obviously getting out of control.

Rafe wasn’t the only one who wouldn’t be going back to sleep tonight. In truth, she hated that she was contributing to his insomnia. He seemed nice, really, and was obviously a good guy, concerned about his neighbors, ready to help. He had a really cute accent, too….

Shaking away thoughts of her hunky neighbor, Joy couldn’t risk going back to bed and the dreams starting up again. Not tonight. She didn’t know why she was having them—she didn’t even care for sex all that much. The few serious relationships she’d had had proved that. Of course, maybe if sex in reality was as terrific as it was in her unconscious, she’d revise her opinion, but in her experience, it hadn’t been.

Eyeing the armchair and ottoman by the TV from her sitting position at the base of the door, she smiled. At least if she fell back into her lusty dreams no one would hear her from there.

RAFE SEARCHED THE CROWDED shelves of the garage in the corner where Warren kept his tools. He was looking for the laser level Warren had bragged about, but couldn’t find it anywhere. His pal was not a slob, exactly, but he was a pack rat. Everything from old electrical tape to plastic bags with every spare part you could think of was crammed three-deep on the narrow shelves.

While Rafe hadn’t been able to fall back asleep, the couple hours he’d managed had given him a boost of energy. He was intent on repainting the small kitchen for Warren and his bride—Rafe’s version of a Christmas/wedding gift—but he had to put up the wainscoting first, and that required the level.

When he yanked free a box from an upper shelf, what he found was more interesting—an older model camcorder. He recognized it in an instant—Warren had gotten it for his eighteenth birthday, and they’d had a hell of a time with it.

They’d pestered Rafe’s sisters particularly, following them around with the camera until his eldest sister, Becky, had threatened to crush it under her car wheel if they didn’t stop. Rafe was the fourth after three sisters, and though he loved them dearly, and they all had close relationships now, back then, he had been a major pain, as younger brothers aim to be.

Taking the camcorder out, Rafe saw there was a tape inside and for the heck of it, hit the play button, wondering if he might stumble across one of those old adventures. Within seconds, he was hitting the off button, a little shocked—Warren and his new wife had apparently been having a little fun with home movies back before they were married and had forgotten to remove the tape. Of course, they probably hadn’t expected anyone to be rummaging through their garage, either.

His embarrassment at discovering the video of Warren in flagrante delicto was muted by the sudden brainstorm that hit him—this could be just what he needed to prove his case.

If his neighbor, name still unknown, wouldn’t believe she was talking—and loudly—in her sleep, he could tape her and prove it. Then, she wouldn’t be able to deny it was her.

He took the tape out. He could buy a new one and replace this one later, after he accomplished his purpose. There was a place downtown that converted old tapes to compact discs. If he went to the local hardware store now, he could buy a new tape and a level to work on the kitchen.

However, grabbing Warren’s keys and heading out to the car—which always stayed in the driveway because the garage was far too packed with everything for it to fit—Rafe was distracted by an older woman teetering on a ladder across the street, hanging some Christmas lights. He jogged over, looking up and calling out, “Hello. That ladder seems a little rickety—could I give you a hand with those lights?”

The woman suspiciously looked down at him. “Who are you?”

He smiled. She reminded him a lot of his grandmother, whom he especially missed at Christmas. This woman seemed tough and independent as well; Rafe recognized the look.

“Rafe Moore, ma’am, at your service. I’m watching over Warren and Trudy’s house while they’re on their honeymoon.”

“Oh, I have seen you. Warren, he’s a good boy.”

Watching her twist around on the ladder Rafe got nervous.

“If you would like, I could give you a hand with those lights. That ladder doesn’t seem too stable. Warren has a good one in the garage. Why don’t you come down and let me go get it?”

She smiled. “That would be wonderful.”

Rafe moved forward, holding the ladder firmly as she started to step down, relieved he’d come outside when he had—if she’d fallen, it could have been serious, even from only six feet up. On the job, he’d frequently been called for older people who’d taken simple falls in their own houses, falls that had caused their deaths in some cases.

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Oh, sorry, I’m Bessie Woods.” She lowered herself slowly. Finally with both feet on the ground, she smiled up at Rafe, shaking her head at the ladder. “My husband passed on last spring. I didn’t really plan to do much for the holiday. My family is worried and doesn’t want me alone, so I just found out they’re all coming here next week to spend a few days before Christmas. I’ll go home with them for the New Year. I couldn’t have the grandkids showing up with not a single Christmas light on the house.”

She sounded a little grumpy. Rafe nodded, straightening the ladder, silently cheering her family for not abandoning their matriarch. She might not think she wanted the Christmas cheer and the company, but she’d be happier for it once everyone was around. The holidays were so hard for people who’d lost loved ones.

“Well, let’s see what we can do about that.”

She patted his arm and moved to the side so he could remove the ladder from where it leaned against the porch.

“We’ll do that, and then you can come in and I’ll make you some lunch.” She didn’t ask him, she told him, and he chuckled, not even bothering to argue. She looked up at the ladder.

“My Butch had that ladder for years. I was always yelling at him to get a new one or he’d break his neck. He never did, so I figured it must be good enough. Have to admit, though, I miss him every day. He used to take care of all these things, and…” Her voice faded, choking slightly, and Rafe’s heart squeezed.

“How long were you married?”

“Fifty-seven years. Four children of our own, eleven grandkids, four great grands,” she declared proudly, and Rafe was doing some quick math in his head.

“They’re all coming for Christmas?” He looked at the small house, wondering how they’d fit.

She laughed. “Oh, no, just my youngest son’s family—he lives the closest. The rest are scattered all over the country, though I see them often enough.”

“Good to have a close family,” he stated and realized for the first time that he actually was spending the first Christmas without his own. For some reason, his urge to escape the city, and the job, had blanked out that realization. He knew they’d understand—he’d missed several holidays when he’d had to work—but he’d never been away, completely, for the entire time. His sisters were busy, too—two of them were married; the other, a single lawyer, didn’t seem to have much interest in marriage.

The four of them were always in and out of their parents’ house, around the neighborhood, several times each week. None of them had ever considered leaving New York. It had been a shock for them when Rafe had announced he was heading to California, if only for a little more than a month. They’d been apprehensive, but supportive. They knew he was having problems, and he knew they were only a phone call away.

His eyes drifted over across the street, to his neighbor’s house. Did she have family? People who cared? She appeared to be very alone. He felt a twinge of sympathy if that was the case.

“Where are you from, Rafe?” Bessie interrupted his thought.

“New York City.”

“Ah, been there once. Too loud for me.”

He laughed. “Bessie, what do you think about giving this ladder to the Goodwill—they’ll repair it for someone else’s use, and we can get you a sturdier stepping stool, though not for outside jobs.

“That sounds like a smart idea.”

He looked over at the house next to Warren’s where nothing was stirring.

“Can I ask you a question, Bessie?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Do you know the name of the woman across the street?”

She eyed him shrewdly. “That’s Joy Clarke.”