Page 9 of One Bad Idea

"Finish what?"

"Making the sandwich."

It was then that something snapped. I strode forward and grabbed the sandwich off the counter. With an embarrassing little scream, I hurled it onto the floor and stomped on it, good and hard.

It felt squishy under my shoes, and I stifled a disgusted shudder even as I yelled, "How'sthatfor finished?" I gave it another stomp, and then another. "Asshole."

When he made no reply, I kept on stomping until it felt more liquid than solid. The whole time, I didn't even bother looking down, because let's face it, the sight wouldnotbe pretty.

While the guy watched in silence, I gave it one final stomp and glared across the counter. "Well?"

This whole time, he'd shown no reaction – not even surprise. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I couldn't help but wonder if this sort of thing happened to him a lot.

With a personality like his?

Definitely.

When hestillsaid nothing, I threw up my hands. "Aren't you gonna say something?"

He paused for another long moment. The kitchen was very big and way too quiet. The only noise I heard was the sound of my own ragged breathing.

Finally, looking annoyingly calm, the guy leaned over the countertop and studied the mess on my side of the floor.

I should've been embarrassed, but I was too far gone to care.

The only upside was that the movement revealed that yes, hewaswearing pants, thank God. They were the same tattered jeans that he'd been wearing when he answered the door.

They looked good on him, too – hugging his tight hips and displaying a set of ab muscles so fine it gave the term "washboard" a whole new meaning.

The bastard.

Was I staring?Ifeltlike I was staring, which made me feel ten times worse, not because I cared what the guy thought of me, but rather, because drooling over some jackass would do nothing to help my friend.

I shook my head. "You know what? Forget it. I'll find her myself."

And with that, I turned on my heels, intending to stride out of the kitchen with my head held high. There was only one problem.

The floor sandwich.

It was surprisingly slippery. Or maybe it was my shoes. Either way, I lost my footing and slid sideways, hard and fast, until something caught me in mid-slide.

Him.

Chapter 4

I couldn’t see him, but I could feel his hands on my hips, steadying me, even as I struggled to find my footing on the slippery floor. His hands were strong, but surprisingly gentle as they kept me from sliding further into the mess of my own making.

Okay, now Iwasembarrassed. Slowly, I turned my head to look.

He asked, "You okay?"

He was leaning across the countertop, with his bare stomach pressed tight against the cutting board where he'd been prepping his sandwich. The last time I'd seen it – meaning the cutting board,nothis stomach – it had been stacked with cheese, extra bacon, and the top half of the Kaiser roll, the one that might've topped his sandwich, if only I hadn't just destroyed it.

I saw no sign of these things now. All I saw washim, looking almost human, even as his muscles corded under the effort of holding most of my weight while I stared at him like a total idiot.

I snapped, "I'm fine."

He gave me a dubious look and held on tight while I found my footing enough to mutter, "You can let go now."