Love, Utley (Love Letters #1)

Read about it in books.

That tangible sexual energy that should be neon pink instead of invisible.

Electricity that’s life-giving instead of deadly.

And when it snapped…

My thighs clench at the memory.

The experience was otherworldly.

Maddox lifting me into his strong arms.

Maddox carrying me across the building even as our mouths were fused together.

Maddox shoving furniture together to make a bed for us.

Maddox removing his clothes after he removed mine.

Maddox kissing me. Down there. Before he filled me so full. While talking so dirty.

I clench my fists around the fabric and force my eyes open.

I want to shove my jeans off and recall the scene in much finer detail. But I don’t need to do that. Because I’m seeing him again. Tonight.

The sunlight streaming through my window brightens with each passing minute, reminding me that it’s still early. The custodian who let us out must’ve been the first employee on campus, considering it was barely dawn when he unlocked the doors.

With a groan, I roll back out of bed and trudge to the window, reaching for the blinds.

It’s Saturday. The first weekend since classes started. And I intend to spend the next several hours sleeping since my next shift at the library doesn’t start until this afternoon.

I’ve pulled the blinds in place, and I’m just undoing my jeans when my phone rings.

The sound is muffled, the device buried in the front pocket of my backpack, but I find it before it stops ringing.

It’s not someone saved in my contact list, but the area code is from my hometown, so I answer it.

“Hello?”

The female voice on the other end is kind. “Is this Hannah Utley?”

“Yes.” I nod, even though she can’t see it.

“My name is Jane. I’m a nurse at Health Place in St. Paul. I’m calling on behalf of Ruth Utley.” My stomach drops at the sound of my mom’s name on a stranger’s lips. “She’s okay, in stable condition, but she’s suffered a stroke and is currently admitted to our ICU.”

“Wh-what?” My knees turn to jelly, and I sag into the hard desk chair in front of the window.

“I’m sorry to be calling you with this, but she’s responsive and asked that I contact you.”

Her words make sense. But I can’t find a way to believe them.

“But she’s okay?” I ask, needing her to say it again.

“She’s okay. One of her customers was there when it happened, so the ambulance got to her quickly.”

Mom’s customers.

She was at the shop when it happened.