Nuclear Heat (Firework Girls #4) (2 page)

“Sam?”

I huff, and drop my phone in my bag. “My dad’s been trying to contact my mom.” I say it with a ‘no big deal’ tone in my voice, for my sake more than Jack’s. He knows the story, anyway. But I’m irritated that I’m letting just the mention of my dad get under my skin.

Jack pulls out my phone and reads the text.

“What’s that mean?” he asks, sounding concerned. That’s not helping me.

I shrug. “Fuck if I know.” Translation:
I don’t want to talk about it
.

I’m not playing either. I really don’t. I’m here for the beach and I’m going to fucking enjoy it. I just have to put this out of my mind. There’s nothing I can do about it anyway.

“Hmm,” Jack says. He puts my phone back in the bag and resumes his snacking. He hands over a cookie but I shake my head. I’ve lost my appetite.

After a few minutes, my heart’s pounding too hard and I can’t seem to relax. It pisses me off, too. All these years later, and look what that asshole does to me. He’s not even
here.

Jack stands up suddenly, brushes the crumbs off his shorts, and extends his hand to me. “Come on, Shorty.” I’m a scant five feet four inches and Jack never lets me forget it.

I glance at his hand, then squint up at him. “What?” I ask, too grouchy to try to read his mind.

Instead of answering, he grabs my hand, pulls me into an abrupt stand, bends over, and lifts me over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. I feel the swoop in my stomach as he raises me up and starts running.

I half scream, half laugh. “Jack! No!”

Hanging upside down, I see his rear end—some grains of sand sticking to it—and his bare legs kicking up sand as he rushes us toward the water. This wouldn’t be the first time Jack has sneak attacked me, so when he’s thigh-deep in the waves and hefts me unceremoniously over his shoulder, I know to take a deep breath before I go under.

My body, warm from lying in the sun, jolts all over from the shock of the cold water. I come up gasping. “Oh, you’re a dead man,” I say, scanning the water quickly until my eyes land on him. He’s grinning at me and slowly backing up. He wants me to catch him, or he’d be bounding away and well out of reach. No way can I outrun those long legs.

I still feel some of the blackness my mom’s text created, deep inside my chest, but Jack found the perfect thing to chase it away and I’m all in. I cup both hands and skim them sharply across the surface of the water in his direction, sending an impressive spray toward his face. Laughing, he turns away and I lunge at him, landing hard against his back and wrapping my arms around his neck.

He starts to sink down so he can go underwater, but hangs onto my forearms so I can’t break free and drags me with him. The sound of an oncoming wave is deadened once I’m under the water, and we’re pulled slightly toward shore as the wave goes through.

He releases me and we come up again, grinning at each other. “Brat,” I say, spraying him again.

He laughs his big Jack laugh and just like that I’m back to being me again, with no darkness pulling on me. We mess around a bit more, then take to jumping over the oncoming waves. Once we’ve worn ourselves out, we haul our tails onto the sand, water beading up on our skin. Jack shakes his head, water splaying everywhere and his long, wet locks hanging down in that way that makes him look so adorable.

“So, are we tearing out that wall or what?” he asks, his feet sinking into deep pockets of sand as we make our way back to our chairs.

“Yeah,” I say. “What the hell.”

After several hours of alternating between lounging on the sand and playing in the water, along with making a respectable dent in the snack bag, we finally pack it in and start heading for his truck. He’s in a good spot, in the parking lot right next to the beach; usually, we have to park on a side street somewhere and hoof it. But even though we’re parked close, we still have to cross a good stretch of sand and haul ourselves and all our crap up a sandy hill. When we finally deposit everything in the back of his truck, I’m hot and ready to go.

Jack looks back to the beach, toward a cluster of food trucks farther down shore. “I’m craving some gelato.”

“Dude,” I say, “we
just
got up here.”

“But it’s only right down there,” he says, turning toward me and grinning.

I see he wants it, but I’m not keen on walking all the way back down. I’m about to suggest we just go through a drive-thru somewhere on our way home and get some shakes, but he says, “Come on, Shorty. I’ll even give you a ride.”

He gives me his puppy dog look and I roll my eyes. “Oh fine.” I grab my little string bag with our valuables and throw it on my back.

He practically bounces on his heels, big kid that he is, and turns and lowers himself a bit so I can climb on. I throw my arms around his neck and he picks me up easily, hooking his arms under my knees.

Giving in to my laziness, I rest my chin on his shoulder as he carts me back down the hill.

For a moment, my mind flits back to my father. I haven’t seen him in over four years. The last time, he showed up at the dorms my sophomore year, not long after my grandmother passed away. (The time before that was the horrible encounter with me and my mom, my senior year of high school.) Anyway, this time, I was in the dorm’s common room. With the girls, thank god. They had never seen him but knew the story. I had a class starting soon, and when my dad said he’d walk with me, Isabella pretended to have class too so I wouldn’t be alone with him. I was grateful, even though that meant she saw how I am around him. It’s kind of embarrassing.

Anyway, he said he’d wait for me to get out of class, then take me to dinner. As if. I let him give me a gruff hug—hell, if I know why—and that was that. By the time I got out of class, he was gone and I haven’t seen him since.

Just as well.

I don’t need him anyway. I’ve got Jack and my girls. I’m fine.

I tilt my head, my chin still on Jack’s shoulder, so I can see his profile. He’s got that look he gets when he’s hungry and heading for food and it makes me smile. My friends always make me feel better.

I have to admit, now that I can smell the sweet aroma of waffle cones at the gelato truck, and get a whiff of seasoned meat from the Mexican food truck, my stomach decides it’s suddenly ravenous. As if I haven’t already eaten half my body weight in chips and cookies.

“We should get some street tacos, too,” I say.

“Darlin’,” Jack says, “you read my mind.”

When Emily first asked me out on a date, I almost said no. She’s a new client who has the potential to give me a steady stream of web design jobs, so that’s one reason. The other is, she’s not the kind of girl I usually go for.

But I’ve been thinking about what Sam said. Why
do
I keep going for the... okay, I’m not going to call them bimbos. They’re just a little...

I hear Sam’s voice in my head: “Shallow. Ditsy. Princess wannabes.”

More like, out to have a good time and enjoy life. Hell, I’ve more or less always been after the same thing. It’s not like there’s a problem with that.

Except...

Okay, here it is. I’m getting kind of tired of the rotating girl thing. I’d never admit that to my guy friends, because then I’d have to turn in my Man Card. But it’s true. And other guys obviously get to that point eventually, too, since I see plenty of them falling in love and settling down with one woman. I’m not the only guy who wants it.

And if you want something, you should go for it, right?

Besides, it’s probably time I look for a real relationship since I’m kind of, sort of a grown up now (even if I don’t always feel like it). With a little nudge from Sam, I fell backwards into full-time freelancing straight out of college. I do a little bit of software design and a whole lot of web building, which I like better, and make pretty good money. Okay, great money. Business is booming, actually. I’ve even been invited to speak on responsive web design at a conference in Seattle at the beginning of next month.

Emily will be there too, if I remember correctly, which brings me back to her. We’re at Java Hut, a coffee shop in downtown Rosebrook where I have most my client meetings, since I work from home. She’s sitting across from me finishing off her peach green tea, which she orders every single time we meet. She’s an attractive woman, with shoulder-length brown hair and a pretty smile. She works for a small-business consulting company, and called on me to help one of her clients get their websites set up. We just wrapped up the meeting when, out of the blue, she asked me out.

As I said, I was going to say no. But then I realize the last word Sam or anyone could use to describe her is “bimbo.” She’s pretty in a classy way, and smart and responsible, and doesn’t seem like the one-night stand type. In fact, I’d be willing to bet on whether or not she’d sleep with a guy on the first date (my money’s on “hell, no”).

So, next thing I know, I’m saying, “Sure, that’d be great.”

Why the hell not?

After we make plans for Saturday, I don’t give it much more thought though. I head home and put in another hour or so of work, primarily making notes about the project with Emily and sending out half a dozen emails to various clients and colleagues in the field.

That done, I shut down my laptop for the day and send Sam a text:
Need me to pick up anything?

Sam:
Ice. Thx.

I’m having dinner at Sam’s house like I do probably on a weekly basis anyway, but tonight is special. Tonight, we’re celebrating the return of our long-lost Firework Girl.

“Bella, babe!” I holler as I walk into Sam’s kitchen to see Isabella and her husband, Shane, standing around the island. Isabella breaks into a grin and gives me an enthusiastic hug. Sam takes the bag of ice out of my hand just in time for me to give a proper hug back. I just saw Isabella a few weeks ago for Ashley’s wedding, but this is different. Now she’s back in Rosebrook where she belongs, and this time, to stay.

I try to reign things in with the Firework Girls who now have Guys, but I’m so happy she’s moving back I can’t resist lifting her off her feet. Being the tall, Greek beauty she is, I can only lift her a bit. “Ah, it’s good to have you back, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Jack,” she says, smiling at me as I set her down and release her. “I’m happy to be back.” I smile and give Shane a friendly handshake. I haven’t had a chance to get to know him much, since they’ve been living in Boston for the last two years while Isabella got her Masters in microbiology, but I like him. He’s crazy about Isabella and treats her the way she deserves to be treated, so he’s all right by me. Even if he
was
her philosophy professor when they first met. But that’s another story.

As Sam heads for the cooler sitting against the far kitchen wall, the bag of ice hanging from one hand, I go over and take it from her.

“Thanks,” she says, before returning to the counter where she’s putting together a meat and cheese tray.

“How was the flight?” I ask Shane and Isabella, tearing the bag open and dumping the ice onto the bottles of beer already inside the cooler.

“Long,” Shane says, “but not too bad. I’m glad we won’t have to do it again any time soon.”

Isabella got a killer job at Carson Laboratories here in town. As for Shane, I learn he just finalized getting his old job back at Hartman and will be picking up his doctoral work there.

“I figure at this rate, it’ll take me approximately twenty years to finish my PhD,” he says, grinning. “I’m on the fast track.”

“I
did
offer to turn the job down,” Isabella says. I know she feels responsible for all the delays to his education, even though he clearly doesn’t mind too much.

“Like I’d want you to,” he says. “It’s such a great opportunity. Besides, you know I couldn’t wait to get back here. I’m just glad Dean Jennings was willing to hire me again.”

“Is he worried about old rumors resurfacing?” Sam asks, turning the light on in the oven and bending over to check on whatever delicious-smelling dinner she’s got cooking in there. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a sheer, off-the-shoulder top that shows the lacy, black bralette underneath. She always manages to look sexy without being sleazy. Her short, blonde hair goes off in different directions in this pretty, casual way. It’s not hard to see why she has no trouble reeling in men on demand.

She returns to the cheese tray and I sneak over to peek in the oven myself. The smell has me hopeful.

Lasagna! Bingo!

“Well, it did come up in the interview,” Shane says in answer to Sam’s question, “obviously. But Dean Jennings thinks he did a good enough job keeping a cap on things before. After the initial...” Shane seems to be hunting for a delicate word.

“Scandal?” Sam prompts, providing her usual level of tact.

“Well, yeah. After it first happened”—meaning the affair he was having with his student, now his wife, our not-so-innocent-after-all Isabella—“things died down pretty quickly and he hasn’t heard a word about it since. We’re hoping it’ll be okay.”

“It helps that Shane’s a fantastic professor and killing it with his doctoral work,” Isabella pipes in.

“Are you basing that assessment on his work
inside
the classroom...” Sam says teasingly.

“Ha ha,” Isabella says, sticking out her tongue.

I lightly grab Sam’s side, making a direct hit on her tickle spot. She jumps and swats at my hand. “Hey, brat!”

I grin and take a piece of sliced salami from the stack before helping her add the rest to the tray.

“Where’s Chloe?” I ask. She and Grayson aren’t off travelling somewhere right now (you never know with those two), so they’re supposed to be driving up from Swan Pointe to join in the celebration.

“I heard from her a few minutes before you arrived” Isabella says. “They’re almost here.”

“Too bad Ashley and Erik are gone,” I say. They’re done with their honeymoon, but in Philadelphia for the first stop of their tour.

By the time Sam and I finish the meat and cheese tray and put it in the center of the island, Chloe and Grayson arrive. She bounds in as usual, her auburn hair bouncing in enthusiasm, and gives Isabella and Shane hugs before making her way around to Sam and me. Mere seconds later, she clasps her hands to her chest and says, “Okay, not to steal anyone’s thunder here, but...”

She and Grayson exchange excited grins.

I sense a potential delay to food consumption, so I swipe a piece of cheese off the tray. Just in time.

Chloe extends her left hand over the tray to reveal a rather impressive-looking engagement ring. Isabella and Sam gasp and lean over Chloe’s outstretched hand. Shane and I give Grayson manly nods of approval, while I wonder how much he dropped on that rock.

Isabella’s squealing, while Sam, who’s not exactly the squealing type, says, “Damn, Grayson. That thing must have set you back a fortune.”

“Nice, Sam,” Chloe says, rolling her eyes but still grinning. Not to mention, she’s still blocking access to the food.

“What?” Sam asks innocently, sneaking under Chloe’s hand to grab a couple of cubes of summer sausage. I look at her hopefully and she tosses me one, before popping the other into her mouth and winking at me.

And that’s why she’s my favorite.

Isabella gives Chloe and Grayson congratulatory hugs and Sam follows suit. As I’m giving Chloe a hug and a kiss on the top of her head, I have to wonder why it’s taken them this long to get to this point. It’s been a year since they first got together, and given how fast things happened with them, I would’ve pegged them as married by now. Maybe now that they’re engaged, though...

“So, have you set a date?” Isabella asks.

“Not yet,” Chloe says simply. “Let’s take this into the living room where it’s more comfortable,” she says, grabbing the tray. As she leads the party out, she says, “So tell me about your new job, Bella.”

Hmm. That’s the kind of thing that makes me wonder what the deal is with those two. If they weren’t so clearly happy together, I’d be worried.

I can hear the chatter of the group continuing as they settle into Sam’s living room, but I stay in the kitchen to help with the salad. As Sam and I pull out the ingredients and start assembling them into a bowl, she says, “Does it seem kind of weird to you that they’re just now getting engaged?”

I nod, slicing grape tomatoes in two and tossing them on top of the spinach leaves in the bowl.

“Not that a year’s a long time or anything,” she says, shrugging. “I guess.”

“I know what you mean, though.”

“It’s weird, right?” she says quietly, looking at me. “Something about it bugs me.”

“Do you think they’re having problems?”

She shakes her head firmly. “No. Look at how they are together.”

It’s true. They’re pretty affectionate, and you can’t fake the kind of glow they have when they look at each other.

“I mean, it almost makes me sick,” Sam says, but she’s just kidding. I think.

“Maybe they don’t want to rush it, after starting so quickly?” I suggest.

Sam nods slowly, considering this. “Maybe.”

“It kind of worries me, too,” I admit.

Sam sighs. “Well, maybe it’s nothing. They really do seem happy.” She looks up at me, and leans in closer, “How much do you think he spent on that thing?”

I laugh. She’s clearly not worried enough about Chloe to linger on it. I find that reassuring. God knows, Chloe deserves to be happy. “I don’t know. A
lot.”

“I gotta say,” she continues, popping the last tomato into her mouth and opening the container of Feta cheese, “I don’t get why everyone wants diamonds so badly. Why diamonds?”

“You wouldn’t want a diamond?”

“I wouldn’t want to get
married,”
she says, sprinkling the cheese over the salad. “But, no to the diamond. That’s so predictable. Sapphires are way prettier, especially with silver. Don’t you think?”

“Oh yes, dahling,” I say, batting my hand at her. “But I’d want a ruby ring.”

“Dork,” she says, grinning.

“With little diamonds all around,” I continue in a fake feminine voice, tracing a delicate circle on my left ring finger, “to symbolize each kid in the giant family I hope to have.” I bat my eyelashes at her and she laughs.

“Your ring should be made of chocolate, to symbolize your giant sweet tooth.”

“It’d never make it past the ceremony.”