Fearless by Abby Brooks (best books for 8th graders .txt) 📗

then said our goodnights. I flopped onto a king-sized, four-poster bed, burying myself in a goose down comforter and piles of pillows before flipping over to stare at the ceiling.

Was this real?

Was this house really mine?

Did Eveline McAllister really belong in a place so lavish?

“Take that Drew Stephens,” I muttered, then drove my fists into the mattress as my ex-boss’ face swam into view.

You could be useful…

Nope. I would not let those jerkfaces drag me down. From this point forward, I’d be focusing on the future instead of the past. I swept my hair into a messy bun, brushed my teeth, and changed into PJs—boy shorts and a white tank. As I curled up in my new massive bed, I daydreamed about all the good things that might happen in this house.

I’d write more.

Eat better.

Maybe start yoga or Pilates.

I’d run every day and go vegan.

Or try Paleo.

Or find my perfect match and fall head over heels in love.

As I imagined this healthier, happier, more successful version of Eveline McAllister, the image of a sopping wet stranger popped into my head. With a smile on my face, I snuggled deeper into my haven of pillows and fell asleep.

Little did I know the peace was temporary.

Chapter Four

Evie

Scritch.

Scratch.

Scritchity-scratch, scratch, SCRRRRATCH!

I bolted upright, covers pressed to my chest, hair and eyes wild.

Thump, thump, thump, scratch!

“Amelia?”

I shuddered at my stupidity as I flung off my down comforter. If I’d sounded like a character in a horror movie last night, I’d just doubled down. Everyone knew the girl calling peoples’ names while wearing next to nothing was the first to die.

Morning light warmed the gauzy curtains draped over my windows and the racket continued downstairs. I pulled on a robe and crept into the hallway, not at all surprised to find Amelia coming out of her room, wide-eyed and grinning like the secret adrenaline junky she was.

“Showtime,” she whispered.

Step by step, we crept down the stairs. The second my feet hit the landing, the front door shot open and a demon scrambled through. It was huge and huffing and moved so fast I didn’t have time to run. It knocked me down and stood on my chest, wiggling with enthusiasm as I screamed and screamed.

“Morgan!” A male voice followed pounding footsteps and suddenly, I was free.

Pushing up on my elbows, I found a giggling Amelia, a giant dog, and…

“What are you doing here?” The man and I spoke at the same time, our words dressed in identical outfits of shock, outrage, and curiosity.

I’d almost killed him the night before, so he broke into my house to exact his revenge?

Amelia made a show of answering a pretend phone call, handed it to me, then perched on the bottom step to watch the show.

The man shifted the strap of a messenger bag across his chest, then folded his arms and glared. “Look. I don’t know how you got in here, but if you leave now, I won’t call the police.”

His condescension fanned the fuse lit by a slobber demon named Morgan. “The same could be said in return.” I scuttled to my feet, tightening my robe and hoping I hadn’t given him the show I knew I had. “Why is your dog breaking into my house?”

“Nice try, lady. I happen to know the owner of this house and she’s—”

“My Great Aunt Ruth. And she passed away six months ago.” I arched a brow and extended a hand. “Eveline McAllister, last living descendent of Ruth Graywood.”

“But you should call her Evie.” Amelia grinned from her place on the stairs.

The man eyed me. “Right. Like you didn’t just work some internet magic and find that info.” He scoffed. “You have no idea how many ghosthunters I’ve had to chase away from this place since those articles hit the paper.”

“Right. You’ve got me there.” I stared at my feet like a dejected puppy, then hit him with a glare that meant business. “Oh, but, would an internet search also provide me with the key? Or the deed?” I grabbed my purse off the table near the door, found the key, and slipped it into the lock. With the man still leaning in the doorway, we were closer than I would have liked. Especially given my lack of clothing, the fact that he’d just broken into my house, and even knowing that, I couldn’t help but stare into his decadent, chocolate-colored eyes.

“Huh. Imagine that.” The man stared at my key in the lock and barked a laugh. “It’s nice to meet you Eveline—”

“Evie.” Amelia stood and took his offered hand. “And I’m Amelia. And that’s Morgan and you’re…?” She practically purred and I wanted to murder her.

This guy could be a killer, or a kidnapper, or some crazy stalker. Because we’d run into him twice now—once almost literally and once inside my house—she was ready to call it fate and bless our marriage with sage, vetiver, and whatever stinky herb signaled eternal happiness.

“Alex Prescott.” He shook her hand with a smile. “I live next door. Morgan is very sorry for breaking and entering. We…uhh…saw your car in the driveway and came to investigate.”

Dark curls begged for the attention his eyes commanded. A strong nose drew my gaze down to supple lips. The strap of his messenger bag pressed a ragged T-shirt against his pecs and distressed jeans highlighted just the right amount of everything.

And when I said everything, I meant everything.

Sweet googly-moogly, the man was gifted.

I blinked as all of that circled my head then landed with the sloppy kiss of realization. “Alex Prescott? As in, Alexander Prescott?”

As in, the author of world-class thrillers who graced the New York Times Bestsellers List every time he released a book. As in, the writer who’d come to speak while I was a student at Brown University and I, in all my glorious awkwardness, had decided to be brave enough to talk to him afterwards. Said decision led to me basically jogging along beside him, spewing compliments and forcing a discussion about writing as