The world is a fuzzy white ball.

It’s warm. A little too warm, actually. If this is the afterlife, where can I go to turn the heat down? Then again, maybe I wasn’t as good of a person as I thought…

The sound of beeping penetrates my head, and a sharp pain throbs at my temple. I don’t believe the afterlife allows for pain, at least by any accounts I’ve read. Am I still alive?

I focus in on my eyelids, which feel like anvils. I concentrate all my energy there.

Open your eyes. Open your eyes.

With all my effort, I pry one eye open, then another. The world is still fuzzy, my head still aching. I blink over and over, trying to clear my vision. A dark object appears, and I focus all my attention on that spot, because everywhere else is simply clouded silvery nonsense.

I blink some more. I remember how to lift my hand, and I do, but when it lifts I can tell that something is attached to my arm, limiting my movement.

“What the…” I mumble, and my voice sounds like a ninety-year-old man.

I blink some more, my vision finally coming into focus around the solid object, my one tie to this world. As my eyes clear, the vision of the handsomest man in the world comes into view.

I’m dead. I have to be. No man on Earth is that attractive.

I stare at him, his chocolate-brown eyes probing mine as I come to grips with my surroundings. His straw-colored hair is combed to the side, sideburns neatly shaven. He’s wearing a black denim jacket over a black cotton shirt, and a fraction of dark denim peeks out at his waistline. His shirt fits his form tightly, revealing a muscular torso beneath, not leaving all that much to the imagination.

I continue to ogle him, my eyes glancing over his muscular frame. His chin is angular and strong, his lips a perfect oval—totally kissable. There’s a little cleft in his chin, too. I know that cleft. Yeah. The man is enormous and godlike… and familiar.

I know him.

I’m definitely not dead but I’m definitely not home either. Or maybe I am. The man lives in my apartment building. I have a huge crush on him.

Everything feels so strange.

“Hi, there,” he says, his voice deep and resonant.

“Hi,” I croak, swallowing.

Air hits the back of my throat even with that one word, and I’m parched, a woman lost in a desert without an oasis in sight. Then the man hands me a hospital mug, tipping it toward my lips. I instantly reach out and take it from him.

“I can drink on my own, thanks.”

The water hits my tongue, moistening the dry muscle and slickening my mouth and every part of my insides as it tumbles down my throat. I gulp it down without shame, finally coming up for air. The man looks at me. His name is Isaac. I remember that now.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

He looks uncomfortable, like I’ve asked a loaded question. I glance around me and realize that I’m in a hospital bed. The restraint I was feeling before happens to be an IV and several other wires attaching me to beeping machines. Isaac clears his throat. Apparently, it’s a bit of a story.

My stomach clenches. I have no idea what the hell happened to me.

“Maybe you should get some rest first. It’s probably not good to give you all the details right when you wake up. The cops will be here soon to ask you questions about what happened.”

“The cops?” My jaw drops. I shift and water splashes into my lap. He removes the mug from me and holds it between his palms. “The cops? Why? What’s going on?” My heart goes crazy in my chest.

“Like I said, it’s better if you rest for now. You’ve just woken up, Scarlett. You’ll talk about it with them later.”

“You don’t know me very well, do you?”

“I’m pretty sure the only thing I know about you is that you get junk mail from Victoria’s Secret.”

“Who said that was junk mail?”

I’ve silenced him, and he shrugs. This would be fun if I wasn’t sitting in a hospital bed with a head injury.

“Anyway, let’s have the doctor take a look at you before I get into the nitty gritty.”

“Did you seriously just say nitty gritty?” I ask, my lips tugging upward, in spite of myself.

An enormous, monolithic man saying something as delicate as “nitty gritty” tickles my funny bone, and I repress a chuckle, my throat burning from use. Seeing the humor in my eyes, he sits back in his chair, crossing his incredibly muscled arms with a smirk.

“Yeah, I did. You got a problem with that?”

“Oh, I have a lot of problems at the moment but you talking like a little grandma ain’t one of them. Now you can either tell me what happened to me, or I can pull these wires out of my arm and go find out for myself. Personally, I prefer the former, if you don’t mind.”

We’re staring one another down, and I’m battling between getting lost in his stunning roasted chestnut-colored eyes or the own raging headache pounding behind my frontal lobe. Finally, he concedes, leaning in.

“You were in a fire, trapped in a warehouse. I rescued you.”

I process this information. My skin feels sensitive but not burned. I glance down at it, seeing the creamy white color I always have, and look back up at my neighbor.

“When was this?” I ask, my heart pumping as I do.

Do I want the answer?

“Three days ago,” he replies.

I swallow, my throat parched once again. I’ve been unconscious for three days? I take three deep breaths before I can ask a question.

“And do you know how I managed to get myself into said fire?” I ask.

He hesitates, and I stare him down. He better not lie to me. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a liar.

“Don’t try and spare my feelings. I need to know,” I say, staring him down.

His eyes probe mine, as though he’s searching for the validity behind those words. When I don’t back down, he sits back once again with a nod.

“We found you tied up to a chair in the center of the warehouse. The police are on it. They’ll talk to you soon. Everyone wants to find out who did this to you. That should provide you with a small amount of comfort,” he says.

But it doesn’t.

A chunk of ice develops in my belly, and it melts painfully, slowly, as I process that piece of information. I’ve been working on a few stories, many of them involving information that powerful people don’t want to be found. There could be more than one person who wanted me tied to a chair in a burning warehouse.

“Are you all right, Scarlett?” Isaac asks.

My name on his tongue sounds intimate somehow, even though we are less than strangers. That burning guilt rises back to the surface of my heart, and I swallow, my throat raw. I don’t have time to think about whatever weird thing I have going on with this guy. Clearly, someone wants me dead.

Hell, it could even be him.

A doctor walks in, her eyebrows lifting on her aged face as she realizes that I am awake.

“Welcome back to the world, Miss Smith.”

“Thanks. I’d like to be discharged, please.”

Somehow, it’s possible that the woman’s eyebrows lift even higher into her salt and pepper hairline, and she crosses her arms at me.

Not a good sign.

“You cannot leave this building until you pass our tests deeming you healthy enough to vacate that bed, Miss Smith. And you certainly can’t leave the very day you’ve woken from a three day coma. You’ll have to remain overnight for observation.”

I’m staring the doctor with as much anger I can muster after being knocked out for three days. It sure as hell seems as though someone is out to fucking kill me but by all means, let’s do some medical testing. Don’t we have all the time in the world?

“Can we do it now? I need to get home. I’m fine. I don’t need to stay overnight or whatever. My mom would be worried. My job –”

The doctor sighs. “Your mother has already been notified and she’s been in contact. She’s planning on traveling down to see you, from what she’s informed us.”

That cannot happen. I love my mother, but even an afternoon with her taxes my brain.

“And as for your co-workers. Several have come to the hospital during your time in coma, hence the cards and flowers. Everyone is aware of the situation. You can relax.” She gestures to the gifts and flowers on my bedside table and I grimace.

I can tell she’s about to tell me I have to wait when Isaac’s voice chimes in beside me.

“It would mean a lot to us, Doctor Sattler. I’m Scarlett’s neighbor, and I would be happy to escort her home once the tests are done. It’s an easy commute.” He smiles at her, and even my heart skips a beat. He’s gorgeous, wow.

The doctor, however, is pretty much immune to Isaac’s charms. She shakes her head. “No. You’ll stay overnight, and that’s the end of it.”

“But –”

She raises her palm. “Miss Smith, this is not negotiable. It’s taken a lot of convincing for me to allow the detectives a chance to see you. Do you think you’re more persuasive than a police officer?”

“No,” I grunt and I can’t keep the sulkiness from my tone.

“Very well, then. We’ll discuss your tests tomorrow morning.”

“Doctor,” Isaac says, “I’d like to stay here tonight. For Scarlett’s sake.”

His name on my lips again, and I can’t bring myself to argue with what he’s suggesting.

“No,” she says – boy, that has to be her favorite word. “No visitors after hours. The ward will be locked down.” And with that, she sweeps from the ward, her heels clicking on the linoleum.

“Ugh,” I mutter.

“I’m sorry,” Isaac says. “I’d better let you get some rest. Listen, I’ll come back tomorrow first thing. That okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Why is he being so nice to me? He certainly doesn’t have to be. We were passing acquaintances.

A knock rat-tats at the door and a police detective steps through. “Miss Smith, mind if we have a word?”

“That’s my cue,” Isaac says. He hesitates, almost as if he wants to hug me, then opts for a wave instead and heads for the exit.

The detective enters and I inhale. This should be interesting.

I sit up in the hospital bed and seethe. It’s been an entire day since the cops came, and the doctor hasn’t been in to check on me once. It’s been nurses and nothing else. I have to get out of here.

The questioning the night before didn’t help allay any of my fears. In fact, it seems that I’m missing some things. I can’t remember how I wound up in the warehouse, or even where it is. I have no friggin’ clue as to who would have done this.

There might be a list, one which I’ve given to the cops – all the corrupt politicians and assholes I’ve researched recently – but I can’t pick one. They’ll have to follow leads, and that’s super frustrating for me.

The door to the ward swings inward and Isaac appears.

All the anger and frustration saps out of me, and my shoulders relax. It’s good to see him. He’s a center point in my foggy, head throbbing world, right now. Behind him, is a person I’m less amped to see.

Doctor Sattler strolls into the ward, carrying her clipboard and disdain. “Good morning, Miss Smith. How are you feeling?”

“Perfect. Just great. Can I go now?”

She wriggles her nose. Isaac pulls a face behind her back and I clamp my lips together to keep from laughing.

“That remains to be seen. I’ll run some quick tests to see if you’re stable enough to be discharged.”

“Thank you so much,” Isaac says, his voice the pinnacle of gracious gratitude, funny faces hidden, now.

I want to grin, but my head hurts too much. The doctor approaches and begins examining me, running a light past my eyes for me to follow, testing my reflexes. She asks me a series of questions, and I bullshit my way through them. The truth is, I still feel like complete garbage but I know hospital beds are expensive, and this woman has clearly been in the game for a long time. If someone wants to leave the expensive room, there’s no reason to stop them.

“You’re lucky, considering,” the doctor says. “It would seem that you’ve only sustained mild injuries from the fire.”

As she talks, she begins removing the wires from my skin, freeing me from my hospital prison.

“You’ll likely experience some vertigo from the loss of consciousness as well as the damage to your head. Try to take it easy over the next couple of weeks. Do you feel any dizziness now?”

My head has been spinning since I woke up. The only thing solid in this whole world is Isaac, and I don’t even know if I can trust him. What if he was the one trying to kill me? Dare I rely him to bring me home?

As soon as the thought arrives, I dismiss it. Something in me trusts the man, and I’ve always had good instincts.

Well, most of the time. I think.

“Nope, I feel great,” I say through clenched teeth, forcing a smile.

It’s obvious that neither the doctor nor Isaac are convinced by my paltry display but I hardly care. I will do whatever it takes to get out of this hospital and onto the trail of whoever put me here. Take it easy, my ass. I’ve got work to do.

The doctor stands, finally stepping toward the door.

“Your voice will be hoarse for a little while as your throat heals. Try not to overdo it. I’ll go get your release paperwork and then you’re free to go.”

If I wasn’t in so much pain, I would cheer. Instead, I nod.

“Thanks.”

She makes no effort to show that she heard me as she walks from the room, leaving me alone with Isaac once again. I turn to look at him. Somehow, in the few minutes I wasn’t looking at him, he got more attractive. Was he always that… muscular?

“You don’t need to bring me home.”

“Nonsense. I have a car, you’re clearly not in any condition to get home alone, and it’s actually convenient for me. I’m headed that way already.”

“Hmm,” I say, noncommittal.

It occurs to me in this moment that I have no idea where my clothes are. My eyes scan the room, and, seemingly reading my mind, he stands, towering as he walks to a closet and opens it, pulling out a pair of clothes that aren’t mine.

“The firehouse keeps spare clothing, just in case,” he says, like that explains everything.

I take the proffered clothing and stare at him, waiting for him to give me some privacy. As much as I’d love to show him my ass hanging out of the back of my hospital gown, it sounds a little less than glamourous. He takes the cue, stepping out into the hallway to give me a moment to dress. I make quick work of it, shoving my arms into a tank top, then a baggy sweater, silken boxers, way too loose, and a pair of sweatpants… not exactly my style.

Still better than nothing.

The door opens, and a man with a wheelchair enters and gestures for me to take a seat.

I glare at him. I am not that delicate flower.

“Ma’am, I’m here to escort you out of the building,” the guy says.

“I can walk just fine on my own.”

“Ma’am, it’s hospital procedure to –”

I huff, but settle into the chair. Whatever will get me out of here sooner. The guy wheels me out and Isaac falls in at my side. He doesn’t mention my new mode of transport, thank God. We reach the sliding doors, and the doctor reappears, a nurse appears, with her clipboard and discharge papers in hand.

A couple of signatures and wincing smiles later, I’m good to go. The wheelchair dude pushes me out into the world.

Isaac halts beside me and places a hand on my shoulder. “I didn’t think to bring an extra coat. Would you like mine?” he asks.

I can’t answer. Outside, a fresh coat of snow covers the parking lot, the sky dark gray and cold. I glance over at the security guard’s desk, where a calendar is set to the month of December.

Which is impossible, because before I woke up, it was definitely August.