In the Mood for Love Read Online Free PDF

they experienced periods of irrational depression. Hence, the supposedly haunted house was frequently deserted. As a kid, Sam and his cousins had snuck in dozens of times hoping to catch a glimpse of the ghost of Mary Rothwell.
    They never did.
    Harper had been living in that house on and off for several months. She didn’t believe in ghosts, or so she’d said, but she was obsessed with the legend of Mary Rothwell. So much so, she’d instructed Rocky to decorate the master bedroom/office in the colors and style reminiscent of the 1940s—the decade in which Mary had lived here. Rocky thought it was creepy. Sam thought it was odd. Although, once he’d joined the renovation project, the changes that had felt most right to both Sam and Harper had been those that turned back the clock. Returning the home to its World War II-era glory was just about the only subject Sam and Harper agreed on.
    NEED U. NOW.
    PLEASE
    Harper’s troubling text was burned on Sam’s retinas. He called, but she didn’t answer. He texted. No response. What the hell? Had she fallen down the stairway? Been attacked by a burglar?
    Sam pictured Harper broken and bleeding, and punched the gas.
    Up ahead, the sun dipped below the horizon. Come nightfall, this rural area would turn pitch-black. Sam could find the Rothwell Farm blindfolded. He’d grown up in Sugar Creek. He knew every highway and back road, every mountain trail and logging road. He’d made this particular trek a hundred times over the last few months. Mostly to work on Harper’s house. Sometimes for a text-prompted quickie. With Harper it was always a quickie. They had an agreement. Sex, just sex. And she had rules. No sleeping over. No talking after. Not that Sam was a windbag, but, considering they were well past a one-nighter, banging and running without a shade of intimacy was this side of smarmy. Not that it had prompted him to end their affair. That had been Harper.
    A right onto Fox Lane. Two minutes later—because he was fricking flying —Sam wheeled his truck into Harper’s long drive and skidded to a stop. He jogged to the porch, snagged the spare key tucked behind the backplate of the wall sconce, and pushed through the door without knocking. “Harper!”
    She didn’t answer, but he heard the TV … and a whimper. And wheezing.
    Chest tight, he ducked around the corner, into the living room. The monster plasma screen was alive with the sights and sounds of war. A newscast on CNN. Harper was hunkered on the large vintage sofa Rocky had had delivered last month. She was doubled over, head between her knees, gasping for air.
    Asthma attack?
    Relief torpedoed his dread. He’d imagined far worse.
    Tempering his galloping pulse, he nabbed the remote from the table, muted the volume then crouched in front of Harper. Laying a calming hand to her convulsing back, he asked, “What’s happening, hon?”
    “Can’t. Breathe.”
    “Asthma? Allergy?”
    “Anxiety.”
    “What?” Sam reached through the thickness of her long, dark hair, cupped her face and bade her meet his gaze.
    The first time he’d laid eyes on Harper he’d pegged her as Sports Illustrated model gorgeous. He thought no less now. Even though her face was flushed and sweaty. Even though her sky-blue eyes were dazed.
    She was gasping for air, massaging her chest. “Can’t feel my fingers. Can’t. Breathe. Heart racing. Too fast. Too. Much.”
    So, what? A heart attack? How was that possible? She was a healthy young woman, for crissake. “Harper. Listen. Focus. Do you have a condition I don’t know about? Is there medicine I should get?”
    She shook her head, rocked, and gasped.
    Her distress was unsettling. “I’ll call 911.”
    “No.” She grabbed his hands as he went for his phone. “Talk to me.”
    Sam gawked. Talk? On top of everything else, she was delirious.
    “Talk … talk me down.”
    Then he got it. Anxiety. As in panic attack. What the hell?
    “Feels … feels like I’m …