The minute I get back to my house after the hospital, I strip down and get into my pajamas. They seem to be my go-to attire lately.

Clicking on the television, I unwrap the fast food tacos I grabbed on the way home, ready to settle in for a night of reality TV binging.

I’m halfway into my second taco when my back door opens. Grabbing my phone, I race up the stairs, shutting my bedroom door as quietly as I can and flicking the lock. I slide my dresser in front of my door, then dial 911 while mentally berating myself for not running out the front door. Apparently, I am not good in a crisis.

My foot is tapping, and I keep my ear glued to the door, hearing nothing.

“911, what is your emergency?” a man answers.

“There’s someone in my house,” I whisper, staring out my window but seeing nothing but the alley.

“Okay, give me your address.” I hear the typing as I rattle off my address, my heart thumping and my body perspiring. “Where in the house are they?”

“Downstairs. I heard them come in the back door.”

“Was your door locked or did they force their way in?” He’s all business and how does he expect me to know? Did he expect me to investigate before I called?

“I might have left it open—they didn’t bang it open or break the glass.”

“And where are you now?”

“My bedroom. I put my dresser in front of the door.”

“Smart. Why don’t you get under your bed just to be on the safe side? Keep me on the line. I’ve already dispatched officers to you.”

I slide under my bed, fighting the dust bunnies for space. “Okay, I’m under.” I press my ear to the ground, but hear nothing on the floor beneath me. “I think they left, I don’t hear anything,” I tell the dispatcher.

“Stay where you are, ma’am, the officers are on your street. They’re approaching your house.”

“Okay.” I stay silent, waiting for a gunshot or a scream to echo out. Something to make sure I really did hear my back door open. I mean it did, right?

“Ma’am, one officer is at the front door and the other one is at the back. They see a man.”

“Oh, my God.”

“It’s okay, he’s in their sights through the window. He’s downstairs. Hold on.”

I take a few deep breaths, my heart pounding in my chest so loud it’s competing with the sound of the 911 operator’s voice through my phone.

“Ma’am, a man doesn’t live there, correct?” he asks, and there’s an amusement in his tone that wasn’t there before.

“No. I live by myself. Why?”

“The man appears to be moping.” The dispatcher’s gruff voice loses its seriousness for a second and a laugh slips out. “In a suit.”

“Oh, Jesus.” I crawl out from under my bed. Pushing the dresser back in place, I inhale a breath and unlock my bedroom door.

“They have the man in custody. Would like you to come downstairs?” the dispatcher says.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you.” I tip my head down like a scorned child even though he can’t see me.

“It’s quite okay. I don’t get many laughs on this job. Thank you.”

“Good night.” I roll my eyes.

Seriously, only me.

I open the door, a police officer putting his gun back in his holster at the bottom of my stairs. He’s also fighting a smile.

“I’m sorry,” I say, rounding the bottom of the stairs and heading to the kitchen.

I walk into the kitchen and there’s Jagger laughing with the other officer. His pants are rolled up at the bottom, his bare feet on display while his shoes and socks are tucked in the corner of the room. The exact position I found him in the first time.

“Glad to see you smartened up and called the police this time.” He winks, and my stomach flips.

I place my hand over my stomach, non-verbally reprimanding it for still being affected by this man.

“What are you doing here?” I snip.

The one officer walks by me. “You know this man, I presume?” he asks.

“I do.”

“Do you need us to stick around?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. Thank you and I apologize for the waste of tax dollars.”

He smiles. “No reason for apologies. Glad this turned out to be nothing.”

The officers walk out the back door and Jagger stands on the other side of the counter, quiet.

“Again, why are you here?”

“I was hired by Clean Queen to clean your house.”

I shake my head. “Go home, Jagger.” I turn to leave the room.

“Quinn.” He rounds the corner and reaches for my wrist, circling me to face him. “I’m sorry. I’m a dick. You know this.” His forehead scrunches and he looks uncertain for a minute before he continues. “It’s your fault. You scare the shit out of me.”

What the hell is he talking about?