Boom - Sabrina Stark Page 0,42

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 remembered. 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