“You rat bastard son of a bitch!”

  I land on him hard, my shoulder right in his low back, and he takes a startled step forward, dropping whatever he was carrying before spinning in circles, this way and that. “What the fuck?” he asks, trying to twist me off.

  But I’m a bull terrier, hanging on and growling with grit and determination. This man has my goods, and I’m not leaving without them.

  “Poppy?” Jane from a few houses down says questioningly. “You know him?”

  “Yes, I fucking know him,” I growl between clenched teeth.

  He tries to reach behind himself to pull me around when I shift, climbing up his back and starting to pummel his head and shoulders with a fist. “Where is it? Where is it?” I yell with each punch. “Where is it?”

  He switches to reach over his shoulder, but I’m a spider monkey, not letting go even though my punches seem to have no effect. His back and shoulders are rock hard, thick with muscle, and his skin’s so warm . . . No! Poppy, focus!

  I squeeze my thighs around his waist, climbing higher to go for his face. Fuck it, even a superhero’s gotta protect his eyes. “I’m gonna kill you . . . filet you open like a fish and gut your insides and then choke you with your own intestines.”

  Yup, I do have a way with words on occasion.

  But words don’t win fights like this, and suddenly, I’m flipped neatly over his shoulders. I have about a blink for my mind to suddenly go wheeeeeee! before I’m dropped back-first onto the grass. I’m stunned as my breath is knocked out of me, and the moment’s loss of focus is all he needs. He scrambles, half cartwheeling over me and pinning my shoulders with a thick forearm across my chest while his knee pins my hips down. I writhe and wiggle beneath him, still yelling and cursing a blue streak.

  “What the fuck, woman?” he roars from inches away.

  I blink in surprise, the reality of the situation hitting me. I attacked him. He threw me over his shoulder like I weigh no more than a rag doll. His thigh is between mine. Our breath is mingling hotly between us.

  He stole my fucking book!

  The fury of hundreds of sleepless nights, of writing and deleting incessantly, of questioning myself endlessly, of creating something born of my soul, only to have it ripped away, ignites in a mushroom cloud of destruction, demanding justice. I bring my knee up sharply, slamming him right in his junk.

  He grunts in pain, falling over to the grass beside me in the fetal position. “You kicked me in the fucking ballbag,” he snarls.

  “You deserve that and so much worse,” I tell him, still wheezing from having the wind knocked out of me by the hard ground. We lie next to each other, too hurt or tired to keep trying to draw blood at the moment.

  One of my neighbors, Jane, or at least I think it’s her, calls out, “Okay, folks. Show’s over. Looks like Poppy’s got this one well handled.” To me, she says, “Let me know if you need a shovel and an alibi. We women gotta stick together.”

  I barely know Jane, but in this moment, she becomes a much closer friend. I’m going to bring her cookies next time I buy a batch.

  Everyone must comply and wander back into their houses because by the time I prop myself up on an elbow, there’s only the sound of my panting breathing and the asshole’s moans of pain.

  “Where’s . . . my . . . laptop?” I demand.

  “What laptop?” he says, but the pain must be subsiding because he’s starting to stretch out. His legs are impossibly long next to mine, and I’m reminded how hard and wide he felt over me, pinning me down. If it’d been a different situation, that could’ve been awesome.

  I roll myself up, thankful for the handful of sit ups I did three weeks ago in a fit of creative movement that was supposed to unblock my writer’s block. To no surprise, it didn’t and only made my stomach sore. I really should do more, but this isn’t the time to debate my lack of a fitness routine. For now, I manage to sit up and bend a knee, getting ready for round two. Because it’s coming . . . I can feel it in the air between us.

  “My laptop. The one you stole last night,” I explain as if he could’ve possibly forgotten what he did yesterday. “You were right there, the lights went out, and then poof . . .” I flash my hands like a magician doing a bad trick. “No laptop and no you. I know you stole it, Chad, Kyle, Cole . . . whatever your name is. And I want it back!”

  I point an accusing finger at him, one with now-chipped red polish. Damn shame what a roll around in the grass will do to a manicure because I just got my nails done yesterday morning.

  Not wanting to listen to more bullshit from him, I start round two, jumping over to pin him beneath me and slap at his chest. He blocks the blows at first, arms up to protect his chest and face, but when he realizes that despite my spitfire tendencies, I’m more of a weak kitten than a badass pit bull, he lets his arms fall to his sides. His hands rest on my thighs, which straddle him again, this time from the front, and he starts to laugh at my piss-poor attack, his flat belly bouncing beneath me in a not-unpleasant way as my hands start to sting from slapping his rock-hard chest.

  “I didn’t take anything,” he says between laughs.

  “Yes, you did!”

  “Prove it!”

  “I can’t! I already talked to security and the police, but I need my laptop!” I hate the hint of a whine that’s entered my voice, but I’m desperate. “If I don’t get it back, I’m done.”

  His hands tighten on my thighs, and I can tell he’s trying to control himself. I have no doubt that he could throw me off him easily, but he’s not. Instead, he seems to calm and looks up at me with something approaching compassion in his eyes. “Look, I’ll buy you a new one. Whatever you need. Deal?”

  I blink in surprise. That’s actually nice, but it won’t solve my problem. “Not good enough. I need my laptop. It has my book on it.”

  He tilts his head, squinting in confusion. “Book?”

  Is he playing dumb or something? I glare back down at him, nodding. “Yeah, like you didn’t know that when you stole it.”

  He opens his mouth like he’s got a rebuttal on the tip of his tongue, but a buzzing sound interrupts, garnering both of our attention. He holds up a single finger, telling me to hold on a minute as if I’m not in charge here, pinning him to the ground. Reaching around my thigh, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and glares at it.

  I wonder if he glares at everything because that seems to be his most common expression in the two days I’ve known him. Glaring, lying, laptop-stealing, sexy, strong . . . ahem, asshole of a man.

  God, I’m such a mess. But I’ll be even more of a mess if I don’t fix this and get my laptop back.

  He rolls his eyes, huffing in annoyance. Wow, a new expression . . . and the tally goes up to three. Four, if I count that flirty smirk he threw at me when he caught me last night.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Did I crack it?”

  I should have, but instead he just grunts, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

  “Of course you’d say that. Obviously, something’s wrong.”

  “My mom is overbearing.” It’s the slightest insight, but it’s like pulling teeth to get even that much. But before I can try to pry that crack open, his phone rings again. He looks at it, and in the movement, I can see that the screen still says Mom.

  “You gonna answer that?”

  “No.”

  Yes! He may not have realized it, but Mr. C-K-I don’t know your name just handed me leverage on a silver platter.

  Before he can do anything, I reach down and pinch his nipple through his shirt, twisting it sharply. He yells and bucks his hips, half throwing me off as he curves away from me, giving me the perfect chance to grab his phone. I lunge and snatch it, scrambling to my feet and sprinting around his truck in an instant, but he’s hot on my heels.

  “Give it!”

  I keep him opposite me as much as I can, a standoff of inches around the bed of the truck. “Or what?”

  I hold up the still ringing phone, and he demands, “Don’t you dare.”

  His phone buzzes again, and never being one to do what I’m told, I hit the button and answer on speakerphone.

  “What the hell, Connor?” a worried older voice says over the phone as the guy looks worse than when I kneed him in the balls. “You’re not even answering my calls now? Did you see my text about Caylee? Your sister is worried sick about you.”

  Connor. Now I know his name. And his sister’s.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Connor’s not available right now. Could I take a message?” I ask in a faux-sweet customer service voice.

  “Oh . . . I didn’t realize,” the woman answers. “You must be Scarlett. I’ve been telling Connor we’d love to meet you for ages. You’ll be at the dinner tomorrow night, right? He told you about that? And the wedding?”

  I look at Connor, who looks so different, vulnerable and almost pleading even as he tries to look angry at the same time. I’ve definitely got him by his real balls here, and I smirk. He shakes his head slowly, mouthing ‘no’ sharply.

  “Scarlett?” I ask as if I’m confused.

  On the other end of the line, the woman slowly says, “Connor’s fiancée?”

  Desperately, Connor yells out, “I told you she can’t come, Mom. But I’ll be there.”

  It seems like even that promise is painful. But honestly, it’s a little disappointing for me too. Even though I shouldn’t regret that he has a fiancée named Scarlett, I do.

  But Scarlett can have her lying, stealing fiancé, and good luck to her.

  “Why isn’t she going?” I mouth to Connor.

  He glares . . . again. I glare back, not budging an inch. Nope, you might be able to pin me to the ground like I’m a feather, but I’ve got the advantage here.

  At least, I think I do until Connor lunges around the corner of the truck, and with a wingspan that would make a basketball player jealous, he grabs my wrist in an attempt to get his phone back. He struggles, but we end up both holding it, fighting for control of the device. “What’s up?” I whisper again. “Why isn’t she going?”

  “She doesn’t exist. I made her up to get my mom off my back,” he admits reluctantly, almost blurting it out but still whispering quietly so his mom doesn’t hear. Shocked, I let go of the phone, and he snatches it back victoriously. “Mom, I’ll have to call you back, ’kay?

  I’m not done, though. Before he can hang up, I yell, “Absolutely, I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Connor is helping me out with a little laptop problem right now, but I’m sure we’ll have it straightened out in no time and will be there for dinner.”

  I see him flinch when I use his name. Or maybe it’s that I just promised his mom that I’d be at this family dinner. Whatever it is, he can suck it because I’m going to use this opportunity to get my laptop back. I know he has it. He all but admitted it, because who would offer to buy a new laptop if they weren’t feeling guilty for stealing the original? Only some Daddy Warbucks kind of guy, and though my hair is red, I’m not getting Orphan Annie vibes when Connor looks at me.

  “That’s awesome, dear! So glad to hear it,” Connor’s mom says just as quickly since she’s probably used to her son hanging up on her, if I’m catching the vibes right. “Okay, I’m going to go before Connor disagrees. Tootles!”

  The line goes dead, and Connor looks at the device in his hand as if he can’t believe what just happened. Slowly, so slowly I can almost feel the secondhand ticking by as he moves, his eyes lift to mine. Cold fury burns in their blue depths, the gold flecks flashing like sparks. I smile and offer a little finger wave. “Hey, fiancé. Now, about my laptop.”

  Chapter 7

  Connor

  How did I lose control of this situation so damn quickly? Two hours ago, everything was cool. I woke up, drove out to a storage locker I keep to grab a few personal items, and then swung by a twenty-four-hour big box place to get the other things I need.

  I sigh, not sure how this could have happened. Controlling the uncontrollable, predicting the unpredictable, adapting and overcoming is what I do, but I’ve been totally thrown off my game by this five-foot-three redhead with the mouth of a sailor and the impulse control of a toddler on a sugar rush after a night of watching the sun come up.

  Frustrated, I grab a bag out of the truck and throw it her way. Thankfully, she catches it, though it doesn’t have anything too important inside. I move lightly, knowing the house has already been set up with most everything I’ll need, but I still like to have my own clothes. Reaching in, I pick up a box and head toward the open door in the small one-car garage.

  She doesn’t follow, so when I get to the door, I turn and call out, “You coming? Seems we’ve got some shit to sort out.”

  I feel like it gives me some control again, and instead of getting angry, I wait. She rattled me, sure. But I’ve learned that when shit happens, you can’t react like you’re in the toilet bowl. You have to keep your mind going. It’s like chess. You might be forced to sacrifice a pawn to protect your king, but you should always be adjusting and playing several moves ahead.

  Sexy Red doesn’t strike me as the type who thinks more than five minutes ahead a lot of the time. Feeling like she’s still got me under her thumb, she slings my bag over her shoulder and comes in, stopping in the doorway to look around. “Helen had pretty wallpaper with flowers in here. What happened to it?”

  “Landlord must’ve taken it down,” I answer, looking at the freshly painted white walls. Truthfully, I have no idea what Hunter did to this place after the last owner moved out. I probably won’t even be here long enough to use this kitchen, much less remember it. When another job comes through, I’ll be gone.

  She doesn’t need to know that, though. I set the box on the small kitchen table, and she does the same, setting my bag on the table and giving me a look of challenge that’s ruined by a curl that’s escaped her messy bun and hangs down in front of her right eye. It makes her look cute and sweet, two things she definitely is not.

  Playing my next move, I walk past her wordlessly, back straight and jaw tight. Outside, I lean against my truck, wondering exactly what the hell I’m doing playing with this girl.

  What are you doing, man? No strings, no messiness. You know the drill. You’re too close to a major breakthrough to risk fucking it up with some crazy she-devil who lives next door.

  My mind remembers how she felt, both clawing at my back and when she was pinned underneath me, but especially when she was straddling my waist, and my animal side says she’s definitely what I’ve been missing. She’s not cute and sweet but instead fiery and sexy . . . a very appealing combination to me.

  Which means I should climb in the truck and drive away. There’s nothing I need in the house, and even if there were, Hunter could get it for me later. I consider it carefully. I could leave, forget about the laptop, forget about the redhead, and stay on mission.

  But I’m intrigued. And attracted. And maybe a tiny bit guilty, the littlest shred of remorse. I didn’t mean to put her in a bad spot. I just needed a bag, and hers was right there for the grabbing.

  And I do know where the laptop is, or more like who has it. Getting it back from JP won’t be easy, but I can probably figure something out.

  I pick up the last bags from the store, steeling myself. I might see life as a chess game, but I’m also smart enough to know I’m not half as in control as I want to be. I know I’m going to need every bit of skill I possess to navigate this conversation. About the laptop . . . and about my mother.

  I carry the bags inside, where my neighbor has helped herself to a box, unpacking my few personal items. “That’s none of your business,” I snap, setting my bag on top of the one she’s trying to unload and effectively pushing her out of the way with the movement.

  “Ooh, yeah . . . I’m really gonna damage these,” she says, pulling out an old Rubik’s cube I fidget with when I need to go all Zen and think about things. She picks up the other item she’s pulled out—an oversized insulated coffee mug that keeps my lifeblood hot for hours. Turning the mug in her hand, she reads the words, “I might look calm. But in my head, I’ve killed you seven times.” She smiles like it’s funny and not the damn truth. Hunter gave it to me after a rough job, and it’s a favorite. “Jeez, I’m engaged to Mr. Sunshine, aren’t I?”

  “We’re not engaged,” I growl as I pull the mug from her hand, setting it in the sink for a scrub down before my morning refuel, and she sets the Rubik’s cube down on the stack of boxes. “We need to talk.”

  “Ya think?” she sasses, hand cocked on a thrown-out hip. “Let’s start with . . . where the fuck is my laptop?”

  “Nope. Start with your name.”

  Her eyes narrow, and she brushes that lock of hair back in a bratty move, huffing out, “Like you don’t know.” When I look at her expectantly, she freezes. “Wait . . . you really don’t know?”

  “I really don’t.”

  “Then why’d you steal my laptop?”

  She thinks this is about her computer and not her bag. I might have a way to salvage this. “Long story.”

  “A-ha!” she shouts triumphantly, pointing a finger at me. “You admitted it. I should call the cops on you.”

  Dammit, but I had to take this particular risk. When her declaration is matched with zero movement, I realize that I’ve still got plays to make. She doesn’t trust or like the cops, perhaps? Interesting. Maybe Sexy Red’s got a bad girl side to her. I look at her expectantly and she gives in.

  “Poppy Woodstock.”

  I snort. I’ve been jumped and am talking to a walking meme. “Of course. Poppy.” I look her over, taking special note of the mane of red hair. It’s not poppy colored, at least not the orange-red California poppies I’m thinking of, but something about her seems vibrant and lively like a field of her namesake.

  “That’s right . . . Connor,” she reminds me. “So now that we both know names, I want to know why you stole my stuff!”