How was that even possible?
With a pang, I decided that Brody was the only beautiful thing in the whole attic. Everything else literally hurt to look at. But looking at Brody? Well, it made me feel something, but it wasn't pain.
So was it any wonder that I couldn’t stop staring?
I was still staring when he turned to face me. When he saw me standing on the top step, he frowned across the distance. "So you came to collect, huh?"
"On what?" And then it hit me. "Oh. You mean about the hoses." I cleared the top step and began moving toward him. "Now that you mention it, you did promise to tell me."
He held up a hand. "Don't."
I stopped in mid-step. "Don't what?"
"Don't come any closer."
Now, I was the one frowning. What did he think? That I'd come to molest him or something?
Talk about arrogant.
I mean, sure, he looked entirely molestable, but he wasn't my type, and his attitude grated.
I was just about to set him straight when he pointed to the vast expanse of floor between us. "Rotten floorboards."
"Oh." Great. Now I felt stupid again. With an awkward laugh, I said, "So that's all?"
But Brody wasn't laughing. "Hey, it's enough. Trust me, you don't want to fall through."
He was right about that. Still, I had to ask, "But aren't you worried?"
"Me? Nah. I know where to step." And then, as if to prove his point, he strode toward me, sidestepping several areas along his path.
When he finally reached me, he did the strangest thing. He held out his hand as if offering a handshake.
I glanced down. What was this? A truce?
To my surprise, I discovered that I was willing to go along if he was. So, with a decisive nod, I reached out and shook his hand with enough gusto to prove that I wasn't afraid to set our differences aside – at least for now, while we worked toward a common goal.
I was still shaking it when Brody laughed.
I paused in mid-shake. "What's so funny?"
"You." He glanced down at our hands, still joined. "I was gonna guide you to the window."
"Oh." My face burned with new embarrassment. And yet, for some reason, I was still holding onto his hand. And he was still holding onto mine.
His hand felt big and warm, and so very strong, even if his touch was surprisingly gentle. Suddenly, I was finding it just a little hard to breathe.
Why was that?
Maybe it was the attic. I glanced around. Probably we had a mold problem.
Yeah. Spores – that had to be it.
When I looked back to Brody, his lips twitched as he said, "Unless you want me to carry you?"
My breath caught. Actually, I'd love to be carried by him.
What?
No, I reminded myself. Not him. But someone like him. Or rather, someone who looked like him, and maybe acted like him just a little, but didn't have all the baggage between us.
And yet, to my infinite annoyance, I was still finding it hard to breathe. I gave the attic another wary glance before asking, "Do you think we have a mold problem?"
"Probably."
I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God."
Brody's hand flexed around mine. "What?"
"I just mean, it's good to know." Determined to break the spell, I gave my hand a light tug, which proved to be totally useless. Brody wasn't letting go.
I gave our joined hands another quick glance. "You don't have to hang on," I said. "I'll just um, follow you to the window, and walk where you walk."
He didn't budge. "Forget it."
"Why?"
"Because, if you misstep," he said, "you'll want someone hanging on."
"But aren't you worried you'll misstep?"
"Hasn't happened yet," he said, giving my hand a gentle tug toward the window, where he'd been standing, looking oh-so fine, earlier. "Now come on," he said. "There's something I want you to see."
His ass?
I gave a little gasp. Shit. Where had that thought come from?
Brody paused in mid-tug. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I cleared my throat. "Probably just the spores." I summoned up a little cough, followed by an awkward smile. "Anyway…" I said, putting some extra pep into my voice, "Lead on, Macduff."
It was an old joke.
In high school, Brody and I had taken advanced English together. This included a month of Shakespeare – primarily Macbeth. The line was supposed to be, "Lay on, Macduff," as our English teacher had reminded us repeatedly while ranting about how often it was misquoted.
As far as the play itself, I'd hated it, mostly because nearly everyone died by the end. But Brody? He'd loved it. I could tell. He'd been sitting across from me, and I'd seen with my own eyes how the story had captured his imagination – well, on the days he actually attended class, that is.
Now, as he began leading me toward the window, he replied, "Sure thing, Clara."
At the sound of that name on his lips, my steps faltered.
Brody's grip tightened, and he turned to look. "You okay?"
I was fine, just irritated, that's all.
In high school, he'd called me that name at least fifty times, and not in a good way. This would've been merely annoying if only he hadn't begun that whole "Clara" thing by trying to ruin my grade in English.
Now, years later, he was mocking me again, just like he had back in high school.
It was a good reminder that he'd never liked me, and probably never would. And if I were smart, I'd return the favor.
Chapter 24
Brody
Too late I recalled the full history of that name – Clara Cooper.
During our junior year of high school, Arden and I had the bad luck to be seated next to each other in advanced English.
The seats had been chosen by the teacher, not us, which is how Arden Weathers had found herself stuck in the back row, next to someone like me who preferred to fly under the radar.
But not Arden. No. She liked to sit up front, where the teachers could see when she raised her hand for brownie points or extra credit.
Now in the attic, her hand stiffened in mine as she gave me the same disgruntled look she'd given me back in high school after we'd graded each other's fiction-writing projects.
I said, "Aw come on. You're not still pissed about that, are you?"
From the look on her face, she clearly was. "You tried to flunk me."
"A D-minus?" I scoffed. "That's not flunking. Trust me, I know."
"Yeah, I'm sure you do know," she said, "because you never bothered to try."
"I didn't have to," I said. "You 'tried' enough for both of us."
"Well someone had to," she said. "And I didn't give you a D-minus."
She'd given me a C-plus, which, yeah, was probably more generous than I'd deserved.
The assignment had been to write a fictional story starring a character like ourselves. Me? I'd scribbled out two pages of bullshit, starring a space alien who devoured the world.
But Arden? She'd typed up ten, maybe fifteen pages of lollypops and gumdrops. Not even kidding. Her main character, Clara Cooper, had lived above a candy store, where all the neighborhood kids had come daily to get wise advice from Clara's doting parents.
The whole thing had made me sick.
I said, "Better a D than an F."
"A D-minus," she corrected.
With my free hand, I reached up to rub the back of my neck. At the time, I'd thought the minus was a nice touch. Now, I had to admit, it was a dick move. But hell if I'd admit it to her when she was hassling me over something that happened seven years ago.
And besides, the teacher had the final say, so it's not like the D-minus would've stuck, especially to a teacher's pet like Arden Weathers.
I told her, "Yeah, well, maybe your story had too many gumdrops."
She glared up at me. "It was relevant to the story. They did own a candy store. Remember?"
Hell yeah, I reme
mbered. And I also remembered the story's mom baking homemade casseroles and the dad asking about homework while taking her out for ice cream – as if a fucking candy store weren't enough.
Like I said, sickening.
In the attic, Arden gave her hand a hard yank. When I refused to let go, she made a sound of annoyance. "That's how you knew it was me in the shower, wasn't it?"
At the thought of Arden in the shower, my brain went fuzzy. "What?"
"When you asked for my name," she said, "I gave you that stupid character name from my story."
"At least we agree on that."
"On what?"
"The name Clara."
Through gritted teeth, she informed me, "That was my grandmother's name."
"Hey, don’t blame me," I said. "You're the one who called it stupid."
"Yeah, well, I meant it differently."
"Good for you."
At this, she gave her hand the hardest yank yet. "Will you please let go."
"Yeah," I said. "When we reach the stairs." Still gripping her hand, I turned and made a move toward the stairway.
Arden didn't budge as she announced, "I can make it on my own."
I stopped and turned to look at her. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I'm not taking that chance."
"Why?" Her tone grew sarcastic. "Because you're such a nice guy?"
"No. Because if you fall through, it'll be my ass on the line."
"Oh, for crying out loud," she said. "Will you please stop talking about your ass."
Huh? I didn't recall mentioning my ass at all. "What?"
Now she was blushing. "Nothing."
"It was something," I said.
"Well…" she stammered. "I guess…speaking of your ass…" Her words trailed into silence, and she glanced around, as if looking for an escape.
"I wasn't speaking of it," I told her. "You were."
"Oh, shut up," she said. "I'm just saying that as long we're talking about stuff in your pants—" She froze. "Damn it. That's not what I meant either."
Her blush deepened, and I fought a sudden urge to smile. "So you've been thinking about my pants, huh?"
"No." Her chin jerked upward. "Definitely not. I mean, yes, but not the way you obviously think." She cleared her throat. "I'm just saying, I'm surprised you didn't shoot me the other night."
"With what?" I laughed. "The 'gun' in my pants?"
"Oh, stop it," she said. "You're making it sound all worse."
"Worse than a gun?"
"Forget the pants," she said. "So you admit it? You had a gun?"
"Hell yeah, I had gun," I said. "What? You think I'm gonna go looking for an intruder without one?"
"I wasn't an intruder," she said. "I was waiting for my cousin. And you broke down the door."
"Yeah. My door," I said. "So don't worry about it."
If Arden were anyone else, I might've taken the time to explain that it wasn't the door that broke, but rather the casing around it.
And, as far as the gun, it's not like I'd been waving it in her face. In fact, once I'd peered through that new hole in the wall and had seen the silhouette of a naked female in the shower, I'd actually tucked the gun into the back of my jeans to keep her from thinking that she was about to get murdered.
I'd been doing her a favor.
The way I saw it, she was lucky I'd taken the time to look first and shoot later – or rather, not shoot at all.
And this was the thanks I got.
It was vintage Arden.
From the look on her face, she wasn't done yet. Sure enough, she demanded, "And why'd you do that, anyway?"
"Do what?"
"Break down the door."
I gave her a look. "You're kidding, right?"
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"
I took a long moment to study her face. No, she definitely wasn't kidding. But she was beautiful. Her eyes were flashing, and her lips were full. And her chest – the perfect size, by the way – was rising and falling in time with her agitated breathing.
Memories of her little yellow T-shirt – and worse, her pretty pink nipples – came flooding back to me. She'd looked good.
She still looked good.
I gave a silent curse. If I kept up this line of thinking, I would be dealing with a problem in my pants, except this time, it wouldn't be a gun.
In reply to her question, I said, "Put yourself in my shoes. You go in to check on a house – a house that's supposed to be empty. And you find someone naked in the shower."
At the word "naked," her lips parted and then quickly shut again. The movement, as small as it was, sent my thoughts straight into the gutter.
And now I was pissed. I didn't want this. I didn't want her. And I didn't want to be thinking X-rated thoughts about someone who violated that all-important rule – the one about sticking your dick in crazy.
With a hard look, I told her, "So like I said, put yourself in my shoes. What do you think I'm gonna do? Knock and wait politely for you to grab a gun of your own and shoot me through the door?"
"Hah! I didn't even have a gun."
"Yeah. But I didn't know that, did I?"
She gave a hard scoff. "You didn't know a lot of things." And with that, she yanked her hand so hard that I forgot to hang on. Faster than I might've thought possible, she turned and tried to stomp off before I lunged for her wrist.
I grabbed it hard and held on tight. Good thing, too. Because already, her left foot had broken through the rotted floor.
She gave a little scream as I yanked her back. Her body collided into mine with enough force to leave us breathless. Or maybe it was just me, because she felt too damned good, with her sweet body pressed tight against my own.
Her arms closed around me. And mine closed around her.
But then, both of us froze.
Neither one of us said a word.
She made no move to pull away.
Neither did I.
As we stood there, my jeans grew uncomfortably tight, and I stifled a groan at the thought of finding a safe spot in the attic and screwing her silly.
I could practically see it. In mind, I could feel it too.
It was the final straw. "Damn it, Arden." By now, I was irritated to the bone. Even worse, I wasn't sure why.
Yeah, sure, I was pissed that she'd been so careless.
But I was even more pissed at myself – for letting her walk on the floor in the first place, and for the way my body was responding to hers.
I didn't even like her.
And she sure as hell didn't like me.
When she dropped her arms, I dropped mine, too. Now I was even more angry, because part of me wanted to yank her back and kiss her hard and heavy, until her knees buckled and she forgot about Clara Cooper and that stupid D-minus.
Instead, I reached once again for her wrist, intending to guide her back to the stairway. But when I looked in that direction, I found one more reason to curse.
Roy was standing on the top step, with his video camera.
And it was pointed straight at us.
Chapter 25
Arden
At something in Brody's expression, I froze.
When I turned to follow his gaze, I stifled a gasp. Roy was standing on the top step of the attic stairway, exactly where I'd been standing when I'd first spotted Brody looking out the rear window.
The fact that Roy had seen our little scuffle – or whatever it was – would've been humiliating enough on its own. But unless I was mistaken, he was filming us, too.
What the hell?
I called out, "What are you doing?"
In reply, he made a forwarding motion with his free hand, as if to indicate that I should ignore the camera and keep on with whatever he'd just interrupted.
I felt my jaw clench. Didn't he get it?
Whatever had just happened, it was done.
Now, if I had my way, I'd simply stomp off into the proverbial sunset – except I couldn’t, because I'd just learned the folly of
that idea.
Brody was still hanging onto my wrist. And this time, I wasn't pulling away.
With growing desperation, I looked back to him, intending to swallow my pride and ask him to guide me back to the stairway.
Turns out, I didn't need to. The request died on my lips when Brody gave my wrist a decisive tug and began leading me toward the stairs – and yes, toward that godawful camera.
I refused to look at it, even as Brody practically dragged me first past Roy and then, all the way down the stairs.
As soon as we reached the bottom, Brody slammed the stairway door shut behind us and gave me a hard look. "Let's get one thing straight," he said. "The attic – it's off limits. And if you can't remember that, I don't care who the hell hired you, you'll be out faster than you can say Clara's Fucking Candies."
Jerk.
Okay yes, I saw his point about the attic. And he had every right to be angry. But that crack about the candy store was yet another low blow.
I coldly informed him, "Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere near it."
Or you.
I didn't say that last part, because I refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I was thinking of him at all.
But the sad truth was, it had felt achingly good to be held in his arms, to feel his heartbeat against mine, and to feel the proof of his arousal pressing against my hip.
All of this posed a dangerous question. What on Earth had happened up there?
As Brody turned and silently stalked away, I made a point to look in the opposite direction. But when I did, I spotted Waverly eying me from the nearest bedroom doorway.
Her posture was stiff, and her eyes were hard. From the look on her face, I wasn't the only one wondering what had happened up there.
Terrific.
Technically, my work day hadn't yet begun. But already, I was more exhausted than I cared to consider. Between the lack of sleep and raw nerves, I felt like finding a nice closet to hide in.
No such luck.
The thought had barely crossed my mind when Roy emerged from the attic, looking perfectly at ease, as if he hadn't just violated our privacy twice over – once by watching us with his own eyes, and a second time by filming us, too.
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