My head ached and my mouth tasted like a gnome had crapped in it.

I fought past the sticky cobwebs clinging to my thoughts, making simple motor function difficult.

I tried to rub my nose against the unfamiliar smells but I ended up just haphazardly sliding my hand across my face as if I’d suddenly forgotten where my nose was in relation to my face.

Was I having a stroke?

No, I could feel my toes.

Or maybe being able to feel my extremities wasn’t a reliable method to determine whether or not I was stroking out.

One eye opened blearily against the dim sunlight filtering in from a hazed window covered partially by faded drapes.

What the....Definitely not in Kansas, anymore, Toto.

“Take this for the headache.”A voice said, startling the bejesus out of me.

I swung my gaze toward the sound. A man, tall and lean, yet stacked with muscle, stood with a glass of water in one hand and a white pill in the other.

The ball cap perched on his head seemed out of place with the hard look in his green eyes.

“What...who...”

“This first,” he gestured “questions after.”

His brusque tone was a slap against my sluggish brain as I struggled to process.

Had I been kidnapped? Was that possible? How? I mean, I know that happened but only to other people. Like people who won the lottery out of millions or people who managed to find both Park Place and Boardwalk on the McDonald’s Monopoly game.

People who ended up on the six o’clock news.

Not me.

I realized the man was still standing there. My head was hurting pretty bad.

“Did you hit me?” I asked, a bit fearful of the answer as he dropped the aspirin in my hand (God, I hoped it was aspirin) and accepted the water glass.

“I don’t hit women.”

“Well, that’s a relief. How’d I get here?”

“I drugged you.”

The aspirin skidded to a stop in my esophagus. “Excuse me?” I squeaked, choking against the sudden burn in my throat. I gulped at the water to push it down until I could sputter, “You drugged me?” Then horror replaced my indignation as I gasped, “Did you just drug me again?”

“Calm down. It was aspirin,” he answered as if I were being ridiculous and shrill for no reason.

Hellllooo, you kidnapped me! Pardon me while I freak the fuck out.

“To run the risk of sounding like every kidnap victim ever...I think you’ve got the wrong girl.”

Wry humor, sarcasm, it was pretty much my only defense in life. I was terribly uncoordinated, not a people person, and the ultimate definition of socially awkward.

So...when faced with an impossibly dangerous situation, where it seemed likely I was about to die, smart-assery was my only weapon.

Yeah, I was probably, no, totally, dying.

I’d say, at least he was cute, but I wasn’t quite ready to embrace a full-blown case of Stockholm Syndrome and, well, being around cute guys wasn’t exactly my forte, much less cute, would-be killers, so I wouldn’t allow myself to even think it.

“I guess the next question would naturally be...why?” I managed, wiping my mouth when I dribbled a little water down my chin. I swallowed, wincing a little. “Not that I’m not, kind of, um, flattered but...why me?”

He held my stare as if he were really trying to figure out how to answer me. I wasn’t sure if his pause was insulting or not. I knew I wasn’t conventionally gorgeous but I didn’t curdle milk either.

“I wish I knew,” he finally grumbled as he gestured for me to follow. “We need to talk. Now.”

Not to be difficult in the face of potential death but I wasn’t in the habit of trotting after someone just because they snapped their fingers.

Already mentioned, not a people person.

But seeing as Mr. Hot Kidnapper had already walked away, he totally missed my incredulous expression so I slowly climbed from the bed and — after the world stopped spinning — I followed him into the small living room.

First of all, where the hell were we?

Worn plaid sofa with uncomfortable cushions, scratched up wooden rails, and chintzy knick knacks perched on the mantle of the cold fireplace — someone had terrible decorating style.

I barely had time to sink into one of the ugly chairs when he threw me another truth bomb.

“I was hired to kill you.”

I gulped and shook my head, not quite sure I’d heard him correctly. “I’m sorry, what?”

But when he didn’t repeat himself for my benefit I was forced to reconcile his original statement.

“What do you mean? Is this is a joke?”

“Do you find it funny?”

“No.”

“Then it’s pretty safe to say, it’s no joke.”

“Why would somebody be trying to kill me?” I managed to say before my throat closed up with fear. This couldn’t be happening. Seriously, not happening. But the ache in my head said otherwise. Well, that and the hired killer with the moss-green gaze who was eyeing me like a dog wary sniffed at a treat from a stranger’s hand.

Stop. Definitely not cute. I was stuck in a weird-ass cabin with my would-be killer. I was no expert on kidnapping and attempted murder but something told me I shouldn't be alive.

Inner snarky bitch don’t fail me now. “Okay, I'll bite. Why didn't you kill me. And I'm gonna overlook for just this minute why you can say that so easily and then secondly, I'm going to ignore the fact that I'm not running out of this place screaming for help.”

“Well, obviously, if I was going to kill you I’d have done it by now.”

Couldn't argue that logic.

Next difficult question. “Are you going to kill me eventually or is my death off the table?”

The tiniest hint of a smile preceded, “The jury is still out.”

Was that killer humor? Not funny.

“No, I'm serious. If you were hired to kill me — which I can't imagine why – why didn't you do it? Not that I’m not grateful but the questions, you know?”

Instead of answering, he asked, “Who out there wants you dead?”

Oh, I get it, you get to ask questions but I don't. Down, Snarky Voice of Potential Suicide. “I can't imagine who would want me dead,” I insisted with all the earnest honesty I could muster. “I’m literally no one. I don't even have any serious workplace drama that would compel someone to take a hit out on me. Seriously, I am like the most boring person on the planet.”

The truth kinda stung a bit. I didn’t set out to be the most boring person alive but sometimes life happened in ways we never expect — and most people make me want to drive a nail through my brain.

“People don't offer the kind of money that was put on your head just because. Either you can level with me or you can take your chances out there with someone who will take the bounty and trust me, they won't hesitate on that trigger.”

“The office pool must be a bitch,” I muttered.

“I’m serious. Someone wants you dead. I didn't do it but someone will. If you can help me figure out why someone would want to kill you I might just be able to save your ass.”

Ahhh, now we circle back to the original question. Why did he care? “Do we know each other? I don't mean to come off sounding ungrateful because I am very grateful to still be breathing but I am a little confused as to why a hired killer would want to randomly save me.”

I wasn’t sure where the bravado was coming from but I was gonna ride it for as long as I was able.

“Here’s the thing, I honestly don't know why anyone would want to kill me. I'm not lying or trying to be modest or evasive. I don't know anyone who would hate me so much that they would want to snuff out my life. I take pictures of mountains and badgers for crying out loud. How rife with revivals could that possibly be?”

The look on his face told me he agreed. Perhaps something he already thought of himself.

“My idea of a wild night is a pint of my favorite ice cream and Netflix. Does that sound like someone who could possibly create such a stir that someone wanted her dead?”

He countered with an equally viable point. “Offers that come across my network aren’t made capriciously.”

We were spinning circles. Time to try a different approach. “Let’s assume for a second that I'm telling the truth and I have no idea who would want me dead. In your qualified opinion who would want to kill someone like me?”

“What kind of name is Breezy Grace?”

I scowled in frustration. “Oh my God, seriously, you're going to give me crap about my name? Like that's never happened before. My entire high school experience was filled with jerks like you who liked to make fun of my name. I had no choice in what my parents named me. What's your name Mr. Killer?”

“Dex.”

It was my turn to snort. “Dex? That’s just ridiculous. Sounds like Dicks.”

Funny thing, when you were staring at death you got ballsy.

“I noticed you don't answer any of my questions. Why is that? Do you hate women?”

“It has nothing to do with how I feel about women.”

“So, it’s just me,” I concluded, trying not to get prickly. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news but this is, sort of, your fault. If you’d followed through with your job, we wouldn’t be here trying to unravel this mystery. So, seeing as you put this scenario in motion, I suggest you start being more helpful.”

“Point taken,” he responded dryly. “Although, right about now, I’m beginning to question what the hell I was thinking.”

I ignored that. “Got any ideas that might be helpful?”

He sighed in irritation, plainly never been bothered with these kinds of details before. “What about the people you work with? Your boss? Are you sleeping with him? Does he have a jealous wife?”

I made a face. “My boss is a lesbian and as far as I know she and her companion are quite happy together and furthermore, I don’t swing that way, so no, I think we can definitely scratch that one off the list.”

“It was a long shot anyway. The publisher of the mags you work with could never scrap together the kind of money put on your head.”

Okay, now I was terribly curious as to what that number was, actually. Was it morbid to ask? I was probably better off not knowing but there was a perverse thrill in knowing that I was worth an obscene amount of money to someone.

Back on point. Focus, Bree. “I’m telling you, I am so benign. I don't bother anybody. I just do my work and I go home. Honestly, I feel like I've been thrust into really bad dream with very poor decorating sense. Where are we? Literally, this has to be the ugliest place I've ever seen in my life.”

“It's off the grid, that's all you need to know. It's not supposed to be the lap of luxury. Supposed to keep you alive.”

Was this a safe house? Shouldn’t safe houses feel more, I don't know, safe?

“I didn't take you to be so chatty,” he admitted.

“And why is that? You don't know me. Unless...” A horrible thought occurred to me. “Did you stalk me? Oh my God, you totally stalked me, didn't you? Of course you did, that’s how you knew my schedule. That is so invasive.”

His sigh deepened with open frustration. “You talk too much. I should've left you drugged.”

I snapped my mouth shut. Rude. Why I was poking his buttons? It was flat-out stupid. I must've had a death wish because I was playing with fire.

Again, ballsy.

Or I was in shock and acting braver than I felt was the only thing keeping me from passing out from sheer terror.

Either explanation worked.

I glanced around the depressing shack, feeling the minutes tick by like scratches on my skin. “So what are we going to do while we sit here? Stare at each other? I'm starving. Did your master kidnapping plan involve food of any sort?”

“The house is fully stocked with essentials. We will not starve.”

I bit my tongue before saying, what do you consider essential? because I doubted chocolate milk was on his list. He strode into the kitchen and opened the pantry, revealing an impossible amount of MRE’s, as if those were an actual food source.

My hopes crashed and burned. Maybe he was going to collect that bounty after all — because I think I was about to starve.