Before I can even finish signing the sentence, Tati is running out the door and down the hall towards the east wing. Her physical therapy is going well. She only has a slight limp in her right leg from the car crash and her weakened muscles post-coma.
“What is this about?” Courtney asks. Her voice is closer than I expected and a shiver runs down my spine at the feeling of her breath on my neck.
“Go see,” I say, gesturing for her to follow Tati.
She does, walking ahead of me, and though I’m trying to have more self-control, I can’t help but watch her hips move as she walks.
Courtney moves around the house in tiny shorts that reveal every inch of her tanned, toned legs. Her shirts are loose but the material sticks to the curves of her body in suggestive ways that make it hard not to imag
