Page 1

1

RO

“Shit, shit, shit!” My voice mixed with the sizzle of the eggs in the pan, oil spitting furiously. Damn Gran’s rickety stove. Even after my brother stacked some coasters under one of its feet, the old dinosaur still leaned like the titanic.

The oil had made it through my T-shirt, and I fanned at my chest, wafting a hand over my boobs as if it would relieve the burn. My night wasn’t exactly turning out how I planned. I was already up way later than I’d wanted, and adding laundry to my pre-bed to-do list made my shoulders sink. I’d deal with stains in the morning. It was safe to say nobody would ever utter the words “domestic goddess” and Rowena Swan in the same sentence.

After checking the oil hadn’t left burns, I picked up my giant slushy cup from the counter. The paper straw sagged a little as I took a slug.

I’d spent the evening over at Eve’s place. What was supposed to be a late afternoon coffee had turned into a Bridgerton marathon. Season one, of course. The Duke of Hastings was a sight that never got old. I’d left Eve’s house just in time to geta raspberry ice at the Plume ‘n Zoom on the way home. Free slushies were one perk of being an employee at Tuft Swallow’s only gas station.

I gripped the cup, inhaling the smell of the eggs as I pushed them around the pan. The house was quiet. The only light illuminating the kitchen was the bulb over the range hood. Coop and Gran must already be in bed. It usually took a stampede of wildebeest to wake my brother, but I didn’t like to chance it. He was great as big brothers went, but could be grumpy as hell if he didn’t get his sleep.

I completed another lap of the pan with my spatula when a tingle at the back of my neck froze me mid-sweep. The hair at the base of my ponytail lifted as if someone traced ghostly fingers along my nape. I wrapped my hand tighter around the plastic in my palm. Had somebody got into the house?

Craning my neck, I listened for footsteps or heavy breathing. Maybe the grind of an ax being dragged along floorboards.

Nothing. I shook my head. I was being ridiculous. If someone had gotten in, surely I would’ve noticed. Besides, I had no hope of defending myself with just a plastic flipper. And this was Tuft Swallow, not the Bronx. We’d won the safest town in Hawkthorne County fourteen years in a row. As far as I knew, there’d never been a murder here. Particularly one in which the victim had been unalived frying eggs.

I relaxed my grip on the spatula, but a creak of wood and a low, husky voice sounded behind me.

“Hello, Ro.”

My heart somersaulted, and I sucked in a quick breath as I whirled around with the flipper raised high, poised for action. The next second, icy cold hit my chest. I gasped, glancing down. In my terror, I’d squeezed my slushie cup in a death grip. Instead of fending off an ax murderer, all I'd done was send a dripping pool of red ice down my front.

Ignoring the cold at my chest, not to mention the mess, I narrowed my eyes into the gloom. There was a figure in the doorway. A large silhouette. The light from the range hood didn’t reach that far, but when the husky voice came again, a prickling of recognition spread across my skin.

“Are you authorized to handle that spatula, or will I have to disarm you, ma’am?”

The familiar deep voice caressed my ears, all easy and laced with a smile. My heart stuttered against my ribs.

It couldn’t be.

I lowered my hand, and the figure stepped forward. Two sparkling blue eyes and a handsome face emerged out of the shadows. The thin light above the stove cast a line along cheekbones so sharp they could carve a masterpiece. As he drew closer, a long-forgotten scent, a soapy mix of lemons and mint, reached my nose.

With a jackhammer going off in my chest, I put down the crushed slushie cup and groped blindly for the light switch on the wall behind me. My fingers flitted over the cold tiles of the wall, and I almost knocked over a jar of pickles before I found the switch.

I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the light. “Brody?”

I swept my gaze over his mussed-up fair hair, bare chest, and the hint of a smile on his lips.

His smirk grew wider, though, as he looked at my hand. “I’m not sure a spatula is much of a defense, but I like your spirit. You planning on murdering someone?”

I steadied my breath. “You frightened the life out of me. You can’t just go creeping up on people in the dark.”

Especially people whose hearts you’d crushed five years ago without a backward glance.

He raked his eyes over my face and down to my chest, where they lingered. I followed his gaze. My white T-shirt now hada pink, raspberry-scented splotch right in its center, and my hardened nipples strained against the soggy cotton. With my cheeks on fire, I crossed one arm over my chest, covering my breasts.

Brody’s eyes traveled back to my face, and I mentally eye-rolled. Yay for my lack of makeup and super-shiny skin. Eve had suggested we try face packs, and I wasn’t sure the remnants weren’t still mingling in my hairline.

My heart sank. This wasn’t how I wanted him to see me. Not after all these years. I’d followed his career on TV and in the papers, but we hadn’t seen each other in person for ages.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

He smirked, and a dimple lit up one side of his face. “I could ask you the same thing. Isn’t it a bit late to be cooking? He took in my old tote bag and the pair of Converse that lay abandoned near the kitchen door. “I hope your date walked you home?”

I scoffed and shifted on my bare feet. He sounded like my brother right about now. “I was with Eve, watching TV.”