Gemotions

The first nail gun blast ripped through the morning quiet. Amelia’s hand flew to her chest, heart hammering a frantic tattoo against her ribs. She shot upright in bed, eyes scanning the room, as if expecting an intruder. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams slicing through her blinds. Every muscle in her body felt coiled, ready to spring. She threw back the covers, her bare feet hitting the cold floor with a decisive thud.

The hammering started again, closer this time. It was definitely next door. She padded to the window, peering out between the curtains. Mr. Henderson’s house was a hive of activity. A large dumpster sat in the driveway, and a crew of men in hard hats swarmed the front porch. She clenched her jaw. This was not going to be a peaceful weekend.

"Oh, for heaven’s sake," she muttered, grabbing her robe and heading for the kitchen. Coffee, strong coffee, was the only antidote she could think of.