Talking in Your Sleep.... Samantha Hunter
“So? Am I required to be best friends with my neighbors?”
Coming from a close-knit neighborhood, he shrugged—he’d always known his. Sometimes too well. Maybe things were different out here.
“Listen, I’m Warren’s friend, and I’m also an EMT—though I don’t have any ID at the moment—if you’re hurt, I can help you, and you can call the police or I can, before I step foot in the place.”
“Why do you keep insisting on thinking I’m hurt?”
“I told you, I heard you scream. It woke me up.”
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t me.” She bit the words out, increasingly agitated, but he knew what he’d heard.
Had she really screamed his name? Out loud? The thought had her cringing inwardly.
“It was you. What I want to know is why you’re lying. It’s either me or the police, sweetheart, take your pick.”
Furious, she threw open the door, challenging him, and he had a moment of doubt. Still, he needed to follow through—he had to make sure she was okay, then he’d leave.
JOY WATCHED HER NEIGHBOR—she still didn’t even know his name—as he prowled around her home. He’d given her one of the most intimate visual inspections she’d ever experienced before he’d started checking out the house. He said he was an EMT, and she supposed his survey was strictly clinical, though it hadn’t felt that way. Given what she’d been dreaming about, that could be her fault, but she wouldn’t admit it.
He hadn’t laid a hand on her; he’d done nothing inappropriate, but had looked her over so thoroughly, apparently searching for signs of abuse, that she’d nearly squirmed. He was in her bedroom now, convincing himself she was safe. Her cheeks went up in flames.
She was mortified and impressed all at once that he was so concerned about her safety. Not all neighbors were willing to get involved. She never was. It wasn’t anything personal, but she worked a lot, and had never really gotten to know the people living around her. Still, had she really been in trouble, she was glad to know there was someone who would help.
However, this situation was getting more embarrassing by the minute. She must have screamed in her sleep the way she had in the dream—in her dream about him—but there was no way she was admitting that. She supposed she could have claimed to have had a nightmare, but that wouldn’t explain screaming his name. She wasn’t exactly good at thinking on her feet in the middle of the night. She hoped that once he saw there was no one else in the house, he’d believe her that he’d heard a voice from some other source.
As he ran up the stairs, two at a time, she couldn’t stop the rush of heat that flowed right down her spine to her core as she watched the muscles in his back flex, and she almost sighed over the perfect masculine shape of his rear. This man was even more handsome up close than he was in her dreams.
And, in her dreams, he had been perfect.
She shook her head, trying to clear her mind.
When he came back down, he gazed at her with curiosity and announced, “You seem to be here alone.”
“Yes, I told you that.”
“So why’d you scream?”
“No, I…It wasn’t me. It must have been someone out on the street.”
He shook his head, and then his eyes narrowed. She held her breath—what was he thinking?
“Do you talk in your sleep?”
It was as if her deepest secret had been revealed—which in a way it had—and she shook her head in denial.
“No. No one’s ever said so, anyway.”
“That has to be it. You must have been having a dream or something—do you remember?”
She crossed her arms defensively. “No, I don’t. I was sleeping soundly until you came slamming at the door, demanding access to my home, threatening me with the police.”
There. The best defense was a good offense, right?
“I thought you were in trouble. It was a pretty loud scream. Woke me out of a…a halfway decent sleep.” His tone took on a tenor of astonishment. “I can’t believe I was actually sleeping, and then you woke me up,” he accused.
Her “good offense” strategy was suddenly on the ropes. “Listen, I don’t know what it was, but I’d like to get back to sleep, and I assume you would, too.”
They were standing about a foot apart, and all she had on was her robe and underwear. From what she could tell, all he had on were those jeans, and they weren’t even zipped up all the way. She had to get him out of here before she almost swooned for crying out loud, feeling a surge of lust for him.
“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