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  By Sabrina Stark

  USA Today Bestselling Author

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  Copyright © 2020 by Sabrina Stark

  Chapter 1

  Arden

  I was lathered in the shower when I heard it – a loud thud from somewhere outside the bathroom. With a gasp, I whirled toward the sound.

  My hair was foaming with shampoo, and the shower was still running. From behind the shower's frosted glass, I stared at the hazy image of the locked bathroom door.

  When nothing happened, I tried to laugh. Obviously, I was only hearing things, which made total sense considering that the events of today would've driven anyone insane.

  See, I wasn't in any danger. I was merely losing my mind.

  It was such a cheery thought – not that I had time to enjoy it. Way too soon, I heard the sound again. A split second later, the bathroom door flew open and banged into the nearby wall, where for some stupid reason it stuck like a magnet to metal.

  Well, that was weird.

  But that was hardly the worst of it.

  In the now-open doorway stood the shadowed silhouette of a man. He was tall with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He wore faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt.

  The jeans were tattered, and the shirt was soaking wet – so wet that it clung to him like a second skin, accenting muscles so fine, I might've marveled at their perfection, if only I didn't feel like screaming.

  But I didn't scream. And why?

  It was because this wasn't my bathroom. Not officially. And there was the tiniest chance that I might be trespassing.

  Still, my heart hammered as I crossed my arms over my naked breasts and blurted out, "Who are you?"

  Sounding a lot calmer than I might've expected, he replied, "I might ask the same."

  And yet, he didn't ask – not directly, anyway. Instead, he strode to the bathroom sink and stopped when he reached it. Turning once again to face me, he leaned his ass against the ancient countertop and crossed his muscular arms, all casual-like, as if he hadn't just busted through the bathroom door.

  I should've been terrified. And part of me was. But I'd been on edge for so many hours now that I'd grown nearly numb to its effects. "The house…" I stammered. "I thought it was empty."

  In a voice tinged with amusement, he replied, "Obviously."

  I stiffened. Well, at least someone was jolly.

  I sure as heck wasn't.

  And yet, I had one thing to be thankful for. My thin, white towel was draped at hip level over the dented towel bar that spanned the narrow shower door. This meant that my pelvis was hidden from his prying eyes – assuming they were prying.

  I couldn't be certain either way. Between the steam and the frosted glass, I was having a hard time making out the guy's face.

  Sure, I saw a mess of thick dark hair, a strong jaw, and all the standard features where they belonged. But as far as the specifics, it was impossible to say.

  On the upside, this meant that he couldn’t see me clearly either.

  Still, he could surely tell that I was naked – not that he needed eyes for that. It was, after all, customary to remove one's clothes before stepping into the shower.

  Clothes?

  My stomach sank. Oh, no.

  My fresh clothes. I'd laid them out near the sink with my undergarments on top – black panties and a lacy black bra. And my other clothes – the ones I'd just taken off – were lying scattered across the faded wooden floor.

  I scanned the familiar worn surface, and felt myself frown. Unless I was mistaken, that bit of pink fabric near the guy's left boot was the bra I'd removed just ten minutes ago.

  Well, this was just terrific.

  If I wasn’t already so traumatized by the rest of it, I might've had the luxury of embarrassment over the fact that my unmentionables were on clear display – and in imminent danger of being stomped.

  But now? Well, let's just say, trampled undies were the least of my worries.

  The truth was, I had no idea what to do.

  It was the middle of the night, and by now, I was pretty sure I didn't belong here. If he belonged here, I might be arrested. And if he didn't belong here? Well, that was infinitely worse, wasn't it?

  Just then, shampoo slid into my eyes, making them sting like a mother-you-know-what. With a stifled curse, I plunged my head back under the steaming water and tried to rinse the suds first from my face and then from my long, dark hair – all without using my hands, because the way I saw it, keeping my goodies covered was infinitely more important.

  Stinging or not, I kept my eyes partially open, keeping a watch on my new bathroom buddy.

  He wasn't leaving.

  But he wasn't moving toward me either. That was good, right?

  Still, as I squinted at his silhouette, I couldn’t help but wonder just how much trouble I was in.

  A lot?

  Probably.

  The whole thing was beyond maddening, and not only because I was naked with a stranger. Once upon a time, this property – bathroom included – had belonged to my family – and to me too, in a roundabout way.

  Not anymore.

  Or at least, not according to the "sold" sign I'd spotted earlier in the front yard.

  If that sign meant what I thought it meant, I was definitely trespassing. But in my own defense, that hadn't been part of the plan.

  I wasn't the trespassing type. When it came to laws and what-not, I was a real stickler. Cripes, I didn't even jaywalk or drive above the speed limit.

  And why? It was because every time I did, it came back to bite me on the butt. Like when, you ask? Well, like now, actually.

  As far as the house itself, it was old, massive, and depressingly vacant – a Victorian beauty that had seen better days.

  Early this morning, I'd arrived as planned, only to find the house mostly empty, much like my bank account, thanks to Jason, my no-good, deadbeat cousin.

  But forget Jason.

  In the bathroom, the stranger still hadn't budged.

  By now, I was officially clean and rinsed. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, I dreaded the thought of turning off the water, just like I dreaded the thought of facing him, whoever he was.

  His voice, cool and conversational, carried over the sounds of the running water. "So, do you come here often?"

  It was either a joke or the lamest pickup line ever. Either way, I wasn't in the mood. "I don't know," I muttered. "Do you?"

  "I will now," he said.

  I gave a soggy blink. "What?"

  "I didn't realize it would be so interesting."

  Interesting? Well, that was one way to put it.

  When I made no reply, the guy spoke again. "Three minutes."

  "What?"

  "It's a thirty-gallon tank. And old as dirt."

  Obviously, he meant the hot water tank. But he was wrong on both counts. The tank was fifty gallons, not thirty. And it was nearly brand new, installed just last month according to my cousin.

  I frowned. Yes. That cousin.

  The deadbeat who'd stood me up.

  My frown deepened. Cripes, maybe he'd been lying about the hot water tank, too.

  The stranger continued, "So do the math."

  I didn't get it. "What math?"

  "I'm just saying, you've got three minutes, maybe less, 'til the water runs cold."

  I liked math, with one exception – story problems. I hated them. I always had. Or maybe I just hated the stranger, whether he deserved it or not.

  Not only had he scared the crap out of me, he sounded way too cocky in his calculations, which was especially annoying consid
ering that he didn't look like any math wizard I'd ever seen. Math and muscles – they weren't known for going hand-in-hand.

  I repeated, "So?"

  "So, you can stall if you want," he said. "But if you stall too long, you're gonna freeze your ass off."

  As if he cared. Stubbornly, I said it again. "So?"

  "So you want a cold shower?"

  "No. Do you?" As soon as the words left my lips, I wanted to take them back.

  I was naked.

  He wasn't.

  And I'd be smart to keep him that way. Quickly, I added, "And just so you know, that wasn't an invitation."

  He gave something like a laugh. "Good thing."

  I shook my head. "What?"

  "That shower – it's narrow as hell."

  He didn't need to tell me. I was the one inside it, after all. "So?" I said for the umpteenth time.

  "So I'd need a crowbar to squeeze myself in."

  I gave his imposing silhouette a good, long look. He was right. He would need a crowbar – unless his stupidly hot body was slippery with soap, in which case…. Oh, for God's sake. What on Earth was wrong with me, anyway?

  And now the idiot was laughing – not loud, but loud enough for me to hear it, even over the sounds of the running water. His laughter was warm and almost contagious, which made everything ten times worse, because the sound of it was lulling me into a false sense of security.

  I wasn't secure.

  Far from it.

  And the fact that I'd almost let down my guard showed a shocking lack of common sense. Seriously Arden, get a grip, will ya?

  I told him, "And stop laughing. This isn't funny."

  Sounding more amused than ever, he said, "Two minutes."

  My teeth were grinding now. "Will you please stop that?"

  He practically snorted. "Why?"

  "Because it's making me nervous." At this, I almost winced. What an asinine thing to say. My nerves should've shattered the moment he'd busted through the door. And maybe they would've, if only I hadn't become numb to nasty surprises.

  Today had been way too full of them.

  "Good," the guy said.

  So he was happy that I was nervous? What kind of sicko was he, anyway? With a sound of annoyance, I said, "And why is that good?"

  "Because," he said, "you're in my house. And you're gonna tell me why."

  Chapter 2

  Arden

  His words hit like a hammer. His house?

  My stomach twisted with new despair. So the house had been sold out from under me? To him?

  In spite of the evidence, I didn't want to believe it. Over the sounds of the shower, I called out, "Says you."

  "Yeah," he scoffed. "Me and the deed."

  Crap.

  I didn't know the guy, but he didn't sound like he was lying. Plus, his bold claim meshed all too well with everything else I'd seen ever since rolling into town – on a Greyhound bus, no less.

  When I considered everything I'd gone through to get here, my fingers tightened into fists. Jason – that lying rat-fink bastard.

  I was gonna kill him. Already I could think of several ways to do it, slowly.

  The guy said, "What, you wanna see it?"

  The deed?

  Hell no.

  What I wanted was to light the stupid thing on fire and watch it burn. But that sort of thing was hardly productive – as I'd learned the hard way back in high school.

  "No," I snapped. "What I want is for you to get out."

  He shifted his stance, making his muscles pop enticingly under the wet fabric of his shirt. "Did you miss the part where you're in my house?"

  "I don't care," I told him. "You need to step outside, like now."

  With a laugh, he said, "Forget it."

  "What?" I sputtered.

  "It's raining buckets out there."

  Well, that explained the wet shirt. Through gritted teeth, I clarified, "I meant out of the bathroom."

  No response.

  No movement either.

  With blatant sarcasm, I asked, "Unless it's raining in the hallway?"

  "Hey, you never know."

  It was then that I realized something. "Wait a minute. You knew exactly what I meant, didn't you?"

  "Maybe."

  "So…you're just giving me a hard time?"

  "Trust me," he said, his tone growing a shade darker. "You could be dealing with a lot worse than me."

  He was right. I could. In fact, it was a small miracle that all he'd done was give me a hard time. If this truly was his house, he'd have plenty of ways to make me miserable beyond simple teasing.

  But if he thought I was going to show him anything he hadn't seen already, he had another thing coming. "I don't care," I insisted. "Just give me some privacy, alright?"

  He still didn't budge.

  I sighed. "Please?"

  "First, tell me your name."

  "Why?" I felt myself swallow. "So you can call the police?"

  "Your name," he repeated. "First and last."

  Arden Weathers. That was my name. Still, I refused to say it because the last thing I needed now was more trouble. I tried to think. What if I gave him a fake name? Would that do the trick?

  Probably not. But hey, it was worth a shot, right?

  "Fine," I said. "It's Clara Cooper."

  His posture stiffened. "What?"

  I felt my eyebrows furrow. Obviously, something had changed, and not for the better. Did he know that I was lying?

  Maybe. I bit my lip. But maybe not.

  Pushing my luck, I said the name again, this time with more bravado. "Clara Cooper."

  His only reply was a single world, spoken almost too low to make out. "Fuck."

  Now it was my turn to stiffen. It wasn't just the profanity. It was something in his voice, something new and ominous.

  Either he knew that I was lying, or some girl named Clara Cooper had really done a number on him. Either way, this wasn't good.

  I held my breath and waited.

  Finally, the guy turned – but not toward the open doorway. Instead, he reached toward the sink behind him. While I watched in new confusion, he gave the faucet a hard twist.

  As water gushed into the sink, I asked, "Why'd you do that?"

  A moment later, I had my answer in the form of icy water shooting from the shower head and pelting my naked skin. With a little yelp, I hollered out, "Hey! What the hell?"

  When the guy spoke again, his voice was so cold, it made the water feel warm in comparison. "See you in the hall, 'Clara.'"

  All modesty forgotten, I jerked back and fumbled for the shower handle. Desperately, I twisted until the icy water stopped running.

  I looked outward just in time to see the stranger leaving through the open bathroom doorway. He didn't even bother to shut the door behind him.

  Well, that was nice.

  Shivering now, I stared after him, wondering what on Earth had just happened. Already, the image of his departure was burned into my brain, and not because he had the tightest ass I'd ever seen.

  It was the other thing I'd noticed– the blurry handle of what could only be a gun, poking out from the rear waistband of his jeans.

  When I shivered again, this time it wasn't because of the cold.

  Still, I tried to look on the bright side. At least he hadn't shot me.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Chapter 3

  Brody

  Clara Cooper, my ass.

  I'd just realized who she was, and her name wasn't Clara. It was Arden Weathers, my least favorite psycho.

  I hadn't seen her in years – six to be exact. But if I had a shit-list from high school, her name would be right at the top.

  From inside the bathroom, she was muttering, "Oh, and thanks a million for closing the door."

  Was she talking to me?

  Not likely. Yeah, I was the only one here, and yeah, it was me who'd left the door open. But judging from her tone, she was talking to herself, as if I couldn’
t hear what she was saying.

  It was vintage Arden. She'd done that in high school too, back when I'd had the sorry luck to be partnered with her in chemistry.

  We weren't friends. And that wasn't going to change any time soon.

  I was standing just a few feet away from the bathroom doorway, leaning sideways against the wall. From here, I couldn’t see into the bathroom, but I'd be sure to catch her if she tried to run off without explaining what she was doing here.

  I called back, "Hey, you're welcome."

  Silence.

  I scoffed, "What, you thought I couldn’t hear you?"

  More silence.

  That was fine by me. I was busy, anyway. On my way out of the bathroom, I'd snagged her cell phone off the counter near the sink.

  And why?

  It was because I wasn't a dumb-ass, that's why.

  The last thing I needed now was for her to start making phone calls, serving up stories to the police – or hell, even to the media – about how I'd accosted her in the shower.

  My shower.

  My house.

  My rules.

  It was my hot water, too, and I wasn't sorry for cheating Arden out of the last of it.

  Inside the bathroom, the sink's faucet was still running. I couldn't see it, but I could hear it loud and clear, even out here in the hall.

  Just to be a dick, I called out, "Oh hey, turn off the sink, will ya?"

  I heard a sigh, but nothing else. Probably, she was still hiding out in the shower, as if she wouldn’t need to come out eventually.

  But hey, I had all night. And the delay wasn't all bad. It gave me more time with her phone. With one hand, I started scrolling through her texts. I started at the top, where she'd left dozens of messages for someone named Jason.

  Her boyfriend?

  Maybe.

  If so, they were definitely on the outs. Her texts fell into one of three basic categories.

  Where are you?

  Why aren't you calling me back?

  Will you please text me or something?

  Some of the messages, the later ones in particular, included a good bit of profanity. All of them reeked of desperation.

  The cursing surprised me. In high school, Arden hadn't been the type. Instead, she'd been all prim and proper – well, except for that one time, when she'd cursed up a storm.