Boom

by Sabrina Stark

  And me? I'd been on the receiving end.

  As far as her desperation, that surprised me too. I didn't like Arden. Hell, I might even hate her. But I wasn't blind to what I'd seen back in high school and just now in the shower.

  A girl like Arden – she wouldn’t need to beg.

  At the memory of her silhouette, naked and slippery with suds from her hair, I felt my jeans tighten only a fraction before I remembered who she was.

  Arden Fucking Weathers.

  No way I'd be tapping that, even if she did beg – which, truth be told, happened to me more than you'd think.

  From inside the bathroom, she called out, "Will you please shut the door?"

  I didn't move. "Why?"

  "Why else? For privacy."

  "From me?" I said. "Don't worry, I'm not interested."

  "I don't care," she called back. "You were the one who opened it. You should shut it."

  My guess? She still hadn't budged from the shower. Little Miss Modesty. She'd been like that in high school, too. Her clothes were never tight. Her shirts were never too low in the front or too high on her midriff. And her skirts – on the rare occasions she wore them – were never short enough to be interesting.

  She'd been a good girl all the way through – until she wasn't.

  When I made no reply, she said, "Alright fine. But promise me you won't look."

  I was still scrolling through her phone. "Don't worry. I couldn’t if I wanted to."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'd have to move," I told her. "And trust me, you're not worth it."

  Was I being an asshole?

  Hell yeah.

  But this was Arden Weathers, and the way I saw it, she was just lucky I hadn't tossed her naked out into the rain.

  She said nothing in reply, but soon, I heard the soft creak of the floorboards, followed by quick footsteps and the sudden slamming of the bathroom door.

  I didn't look up or flinch. Hell, I'd been expecting it.

  A moment later, Arden groaned, "Oh, my God. Did you see this hole?"

  Now that was a dangerous question. If I were twelve, I might've snickered. The shit-lord in me had to ask, "Which one? Front or back?"

  She was silent for a long moment before saying, "If you mean what I think you mean, I don't appreciate it."

  I smiled, but made no reply.

  A few seconds later, she spoke again. "And just so you know, I meant the hole in the wall."

  "Yeah," I laughed. "Front or back?"

  "What?"

  My gaze strayed to the nearby hole in the plaster – the one I'd made just fifteen minutes ago while trying to figure out who was in my bathroom. The hole was big on my side, and very small on hers.

  Probably, she hadn't even noticed it.

  From the other side of the door, she muttered, "You know what? Forget it."

  "Done."

  She sighed. "I'm just saying, there's no need to trash the place."

  Right. My place. Not hers. I replied, "Nice of you to care."

  "Yeah, well maybe you should care, too," she said. "They don't build them like this anymore, you know."

  I knew. In fact, I knew a lot more about construction than Arden Weathers – or any other person who wasn't in the trade. I was damn good at what I did, and I'd gotten filthy rich doing it too, along with my older brothers.

  If Arden were a person worth telling, I might've assured her that she didn't need to worry about the house. It was in very good hands. Mine. And when I was done with it, there'd be no holes anywhere they didn't belong.

  And there'd be no Arden Weathers. That was for damned sure.

  Chapter 4

  Arden

  As I hurriedly dried myself off, I kept glancing at the perfectly round dent in the plaster. Yes, I'd called it a hole, but the jackass in the hallway might disagree, considering that the hole didn't go all the way through.

  Still, it was ugly.

  The dent was the exact size and shape of a doorknob. No coincidence there. The doorknob was, after all, what had made the dent in the first place – thanks to the maniac who'd busted in.

  As I surveyed the damage, I felt myself frown. In addition to the hole, there were new cracks in the door itself. And don't get me started on the casing around the door. To my amateur eyes, it looked utterly ruined.

  The whole thing was incredibly depressing. My grandparents had loved this place. Sure, maybe the upkeep had gotten harder as they'd gotten older, but unlike the maniac, they'd done the best they could.

  And I would've, too, if only I'd had the chance.

  But this was a problem for another time. Now what I needed was some quick inspiration, a way to talk myself out of whatever trouble I'd gotten myself into.

  Unfortunately, I was seriously short of ideas. Even that stupid name I'd given, Clara Cooper, had come straight from a high school English project – a junior assignment where I'd had to write a short story starring a character like myself.

  At the memory, a bitter laugh escaped my lips. High school – now that had ended with a bang, or more accurately a boom – a flaming boom, to be exact, even if that hadn't been my intention.

  But forget high school. Now, I had to face the music with whoever was waiting in the hallway.

  After I finished getting dressed, I scooped up the other clothes, the ones I'd taken off before getting into the shower. Hoping to hide them from prying eyes, I wadded them up into the smallest ball possible and tucked them under my arm.

  And then, I reached for my cell phone, only to receive yet another nasty surprise. My phone – it was gone.

  Frantically, I scanned the bathroom, but it was no use. I'd placed it right there on the far side of the sink. And now, it quite simply wasn't there.

  Terrific. Obviously, the stranger had swiped it when I hadn't been looking.

  Through the bathroom door, I called out, "Hey! Where's my phone?"

  The stranger replied, "You've gotta ask?"

  "So you do have it?"

  "Hell yeah."

  "Why?" I demanded.

  "Why do you think?"

  Because you're a jerk, that's why. Through gritted teeth, I said, "Do you seriously want me to answer that?"

  He paused, as if thinking. "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don't care," he said. "Are you dressed?"

  "Maybe."

  "Good," he said. "Now open the door."

  For a whole host of reasons, I didn't want to. The thought of actually facing him was more than a little scary – and not only because of the gun.

  When I made no reply, the guy spoke again. "You know you've got to come out eventually, right?"

  "Why?" I scoffed. "So you can shoot me?"

  "If I wanted to shoot you," he said, "I would've done it already."

  Well, that was comforting. Sort of.

  I called back, "And why do you have a gun in the first place?"

  "Listen," he said, "gun or no gun, we both know I could come in any time I want. So cut the crap and open up already."

  Damn it. He was right. The bathroom had no windows, and it's not like I could call anyone to rescue me. And even if I could, who would come?

  In the end, I decided I might as well get it over with. Bracing myself, I sucked in a deep breath, reached for the knob, and yanked open the door.

  And there he was – looking even better, now that we were standing face-to-face.

  His dark hair was a damp, tousled mess, and his T-shirt was still wet. The thin white cotton clung to his chest and abs, showing off muscular pecs and a perfect six-pack just above his tattered jeans.

  As for his face, it was pure perfection, with nice cheekbones, a rugged jaw, and dark, brooding eyes.

  At the sight of him, my pulse jumped, and my spine grew twitchy. I could hardly breathe, but not because he was so stupidly gorgeous.

  It was because – son-of-a bitch – I knew him.

  Now, it was my turn to say it, even if only in my own head
. Fuck.

  Chapter 5

  Arden

  To my infinite horror, I was staring into the hard gaze of Broderick Blastoviak – aka Brody Blast, a guy I'd known back in high school.

  We had a history, and it wasn't terrific.

  In school, he'd been a total trouble-maker through-and-through. Cocky. Obnoxiously brilliant. And too dangerous by half.

  Unlike me, he never, ever followed the rules – and yet, he never seemed to pay for it.

  That dickweed had cost me a full-ride scholarship. He was the reason I'd been working two jobs to pay for college, even while taking on far too many student loans.

  In a roundabout way, this also meant that he was the reason I hadn't been able to purchase this house on my own, back when I'd had the chance three years ago.

  I freaking hated him.

  And boy, did he hate me, too.

  Even if I hadn't known this already, the look in his eyes would've been proof enough.

  I sputtered, "What are you doing here?"

  He gave me a look. "You mean in my house?"

  "Oh come on!" I said. "It can't be your house. There's no furniture. And besides, why would you want to live here? Don't you have houses all over the place already?"

  This wasn't as far-fetched as you'd think. Brilliant or not, Brody hadn't gone to college. Instead, he'd founded a tool-and-die company with his two older brothers and then proceeded to take the market by storm.

  These days, Blast Tools – that was the name of their company – was famously successful, just like the company's three founders.

  And I meant "famous" quite literally.

  A few years ago, by some miracle, the brothers had gotten themselves a weekly cable show on the Home Network, where they used their own tools to remodel older homes or sometimes build new ones.

  And just for the record, they looked very good doing it.

  By now, they were total celebrities, not just here in Michigan, but all over the world. Of course, it didn't hurt that all three of them were obnoxiously hot.

  Damn it.

  I was still pondering the unfairness of it all when Brody said, "Yeah? So what if I do?"

  It took me a moment to realize that he was responding to my question – the one about him having plenty of homes already.

  As usual, he was missing the point.

  I tried again. "I'm just saying, if you have houses all over the place, why do you need another?"

  My heart clenched. And why, oh why, do you need this one?

  His only reply was a tight shrug, which – adding to my frustration – made his wet T-shirt slide enticingly over his abs.

  But forget the abs.

  With growing concern, I asked, "Are you actually going to live here?" The thought was literally painful – a hard ache deep in my stomach. While I'd been growing up, this house had been filled with love and laughter.

  And now, it would be filled with him. Oh sure, Brody liked a good laugh as much as anyone. I recalled that well enough from high school. And as far as love, he would never be short of offers.

  But he was still my enemy. And besides, the kind of love he'd bring into the house was temporary at best.

  He was a total horn-dog.

  I almost shuddered at the thought of him screwing some bimbo in my grandparent's bed. Okay, yes, the actual bed was no longer there, but you get the point.

  In reply to my question, he said, "That's my business, not yours."

  I stiffened. "But—"

  "And I've got questions of my own."

  Oh.

  Yeah. I guess he might have a question or two.

  When I made no reply, he said, "So what are you doing here?" He smirked like he knew something I didn't. "Looking for Jason?"

  And just like that, so many pieces slid into place. Obviously, my rat-fink of a cousin had sold the house out from under me – and to my arch-enemy no less. Was it any wonder that Jason wasn't returning my messages?

  Under my breath, I said, "Un-freaking-believable."

  "You're telling me."

  Back in high school, Brody had vowed to get revenge on me, one way or another – because, well, the thing is, I'd sort of torched his pickup.

  I hadn't meant to. Still, some might say I had every reason in the world to get all torchy – and not only because he'd cost me a scholarship.

  In high school, he'd torched my eyebrows. And my bangs. Sure, they weren't completely torched, but they were a whole lot shorter after that stupid incident with the chemistry lab.

  His fault, not mine.

  The jackass.

  And now here we were, six years later. He was rich and famous. I was broke and desperate.

  Score one for Brody, huh?

  The way it looked, he'd finally gotten his revenge, served nice and cold, too. The jerk had bought my legacy – the family homestead – right out from under me.

  At the realization, I felt like screaming. Or crying. I still couldn’t decide which.

  The whole thing was so incredibly unfair. Brody could've bought a million homes. But me, I only wanted one.

  This one.

  I wanted to build a life here, and if I met a nice guy, maybe even a family. Who knows, I might've filled the house with kids of my own someday.

  I shoved a hand through my wet hair and tried to think. Maybe there was still hope. Maybe he'd only bought the house to fix it up. Maybe he planned to sell it afterward.

  At the thought, my pulse quickened. Maybe I could buy it.

  Sure, I had no money, but I had graduated from college – just last week, in fact. I had a decent degree, too – in business administration.

  All I needed now was a job. Unfortunately, jobs hadn't been so easy to find, especially since I'd been hoping to find one here in my hometown.

  I'd been hoping for a lot of things. But all I'd found was trouble, and plenty of it.

  In front of me, Brody said, "You can start explaining any time now."

  "Oh yeah?" My chin lifted. "Well, maybe I don't owe you an explanation."

  At this, he looked almost ready to laugh. He eyed me up and down, taking in my wet hair and disheveled appearance. "You sure about that?"

  Heat flooded my face. "Alright, fine. I guess you have a point, assuming you're not lying about the house thing."

  "Which I'm not."

  To my ever-growing despair, I actually believed him. Back in high school, Brody had been a lot of things, but never a liar.

  I sighed. "Alright, fine. I'll tell you. But first tell me one thing, okay?" I bit my lip. "Assuming you truly did buy the house, are you planning to live here? Or sell it? I mean, after you fix it up or whatever."

  With cool deliberation, Brody took a long look around, as if seeing the place for the first time. As he did, I tried to see it through his eyes.

  Counting the attic, the house was three stories. At the moment, Brody and I were standing on the second floor near the open staircase. The staircase was original to the house, but rickety here and there, just like everything else.

  Around us, the plaster was in need of patching, and that dark spot in the ceiling could only mean a roof leak.

  Still, the bones of the house were good. Very good. And the location – right here on the Saginaw Bay – was another huge bonus.

  It was beachfront property, which was, sadly, one of the reasons I hadn't been able to buy it on my own. In spite of its less-than-pristine condition, the property's value was shockingly high, just like the taxes.

  I knew, because I'd been paying them for the last three years. Or at least, I thought I'd been paying them. I'd been giving the money to Jason, who'd been hitting me up far too often for home-related expenses.

  This latest round had cost me my car. But hey, cars were replaceable, right?

  As for Brody, he was still looking around.

  The fact that he hadn't yet answered was making me a little nervous. Was he deciding right now?

  I held my breath and waited.

  Finally,
he said something that sent my heart straight into my throat. "Hard to say." He shrugged. "This place? Might not be worth saving."

  Chapter 6

  Brody

  In front of me, Arden sucked in a breath. "What?"

  I stared down at her. Oh man, the look on her face was priceless. It was probably the same look I'd had back in high school, when she'd torched my pickup.

  I smiled. "Is there a problem?"

  Her hair was long, dark, and dripping wet. In high school, thick bangs had covered her forehead. Not anymore – or at least not the way it was combed now. She was wearing black jeans, a little red T-shirt, and red sneakers – the old-fashioned kind. She wore no makeup.

  Still, she looked too damned appealing whether she knew it or not. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were parted. If she were anyone else, I might've called her sexy. But she wasn't anyone else. And crazy hot girls weren't my thing.

  Hot, yes.

  Crazy, no.

  And Arden Weathers was the worst kind of crazy, the kind that snuck up on you when you weren't expecting it – like a pack of hornets nesting in the ceiling. One minute you're pulling down drywall, and next minute, you're wondering what the hell happened.

  Been there, done that.

  Arden Weathers – no way she'd be stinging me.

  In front of me, she gave a hard swallow. "You're not serious?" She blinked a few times before continuing. "I mean, you wouldn’t demolish the house or anything, would you?"

  I made another show of looking around. "Like I said, it's hard to say."

  Her voice rose. "Hard to say if you're serious?"

  I pointed to the ceiling, where a dark stain marred the smooth, white surface. "See that? The roof – it's shot to hell."

  She glanced up. "What?"

  "It needs replacing. And there's another floor above us, which means…" I paused for emphasis. "…the leak's gone straight through. Stuff like that, it doesn't happen overnight."

  The more I talked, the less happy Arden looked. "Yeah, so?"

  "So we're looking at floor damage, too. Maybe structural."

  "Yeah, but—"

  "And the wiring – no way it's up to code."

  "You mean the electrical wiring?"

  "Unless you know another kind."

  She hesitated. "But the electricity…it still works."