Chapter One
Violet
This smoke detector was a nuisance. Could a girl not make some unhealthy pizza rolls without notifying the entire neighborhood that she was doing so?
My head was spinning as the siren blared with a fury.
I tried waving a towel at the ceiling.
I tried opening the back door to let some fresh air in, even though it was colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra outside.
So, right now, I was taking one for the team by fighting this monstrous beast on my own.
“That’s it!” I shouted at the freaking smoke alarm from hell. I yanked it down from the ceiling as I balanced on a barstool in my highest heels. “You are not going to win this one!”
I stumbled back down on my four-inch stilettos, grabbed the hammer from the kitchen drawer, and cranked my neck from one side to the next as I prepared for mass destruction.
I am going to make this bastard my bitch.
“What the hell are you doing?” Charlie’s voice boomed from the open doorway as he stepped inside, one brow arched with complete judgment, per usual.
“Have you ever heard of knocking, Charles?”
He took the hammer from my hand and fiddled with the smoke detector, which of course decided to turn off easily for him.
He glanced around the room, taking in the two tennis shoes I’d thrown at the ceiling, along with the empty Amazon box that I’d chucked up there as well.
And then his eyes moved to me.
His tongue swiped out along his bottom lip as his gaze moved from my face down to my feet. I glanced down, realizing that I was wearing nothing but a cropped black tee and sleep shorts that were more like panties, along with my favorite Manolo Blahniks, of course.
“Nice outfit. Heading out for tea?” His voice oozed sarcasm, but I didn’t miss the way his heated gaze took me in.
I placed my hands on my hips and blew out a breath.
Charlie was sort of my landlord, although he didn’t charge me rent. The home I’d just purchased from my best friend, Montana, had flooded shortly after I’d moved in. He was my contractor as well, so he’d offered me his guesthouse as a place to stay while he renovated my home.
But the man is one of the most infuriating people I’ve ever met.
“I’m trying to go to work. But apparently making a healthy breakfast is a crime around here.”
He glanced over at my pizza rolls, sitting in a pan on the counter, and his lips twitched before he straightened his features.
“So you decided to throw some tennis shoes and an empty box at a smoke detector and put on a pair of heels?” he grumped as he took the hammer and set it back in the kitchen drawer where I’d found it.
The house was well stocked, and all I’d had to bring with me was clothing and toiletries, and of course some decorative things to make the place a little bit warmer.
“Yes, Charles. I was trying to get dressed for work, so I tossed a few items at the ceiling in hopes that I wouldn’t have to climb on that wobbly barstool and yank that bastard off the ceiling.”
He eyed the barstool I’d found out in the garage, which currently had a book under one leg because the other three legs were taller.
“That was supposed to go in the trash.”
I shrugged. “I was working at the kitchen counter over the weekend and found it out in the garage, and it suited my needs.”
“And the heels?”
What is his obsession with the heels?
