“I promised your brother that I would look out for you,” he explains, deflating my balloon of happiness and erasing all thought of illicitly touching him.
“You promised John?” That’s why he thinks of me, because he made a promise to my brother?
Stone nods and plops back down on the couch. Bark jumps on his lap, and Stone tosses the dog some popcorn. All righty then. I’ve spent my entire life crushing on a guy who thinks of me as his little sister, someone he promised to look out for while her brother is away fishing in the North Sea. I’ve wasted my life, pining for someone who hasn’t pined for me for one second. I’ve spent hour after hour fantasizing about Mr. Perfect, suffering embarrassing convulsions, for nothing.
“For nothing!” In a blind rage that only humiliation can create, I pick up the glass and hurl it at him. I can be ornery when I want, but I’m pretty tiny and somewhere in the back of my mind where my unhurt, reasonable self still exists, I figure I won’t do him any harm.
My unhurt, reasonable self is totally wrong.
My aim is off, and the glass bounces hard on the coffee table, knocking a candle and hurtling it toward Stone’s head. Stone has wonderful reflexes and ducks just in time, but the candle hits the back of the couch and goes up into flames, like the Olympic torch.
“Uh,” I say, staring at the flames as they lick upward, illuminating the otherwise dark house. Ruby’s couch must be made of some hyper-flammable material. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
Stone pushes Bark aside, grabs one of Ruby’s handmade afghans, and dives for the flames, trying to snuff them out with the blanket. There’s more fire than blanket, however, and Stone is having trouble. Deciding to help him, I shake the bottle of Kahlua at it, but the alcohol reignites the fire. In an attempt at self-preservation, Stone jumps backward.
“Are you trying to kill me?” he demands, reasonably.
“Yes! I mean, no!” I don’t know what I mean. I’m distracted by the inferno. The burning couch smells like barbecue, and my stomach growls, embarrassing me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Hunger isn’t a normal physical reaction to imminent death. Dead or not, hungry or not, I worry about Ruby’s reaction when she finds out that I burned down her house. Ruby’s not paying me, but even working for free, a dog-sitter shouldn’t commit arson, no matter how good she is with dogs.
Stone continues to put the fire out with the afghan. Finally coming to my senses, I run to the kitchen and fill up the pot I used to bean Stone on the head with water. I throw the water on the couch and put the fire out with a splash.
“There. Not so bad,” I say, pleased with myself. Smoke rises from a black, burned out hole where I was sitting minutes before, but the fire is gone. “Crisis averted.”
“Except for the property damage. Maybe Ruby won’t mind the reduced seating room on her couch.”
“It smells like a weenie roast,” I say and blush at the word “weenie.”
“You’re right. It smells just like a weenie roast. And what’s that sound? It’s like a mosquito buzzing around.” Stone looks up, as if he expects to find mosquitoes flying around his head. I enjoy the moment to look at him, though. He’s amazingly handsome. It’s almost like he has an aura, as if he’s backlit like an angel. Stone the angel. I bite my lower lip to stifle the moan that threatens to escape.
“I don’t hear anything,” I whisper.
“It’s getting louder.”
“At least the electricity is back on.”
“No, it’s not.”
“The lamp isn’t on behind you?” I ask. He’s backlit like crazy, even more than an angel on a family TV show. There’s all kinds of light behind him.
“Sonofabitch!” Stone yells and jumps up, almost hitting his head on the ceiling. He slaps at his head, violently.
“What? What?” I yell.
“I’m on fire!”
“Sonofabitch!” I yell. His beautiful hair is on fire. In a blind panic, I take a running leap at him. With amazing force, considering my small size, I knock him down onto Ruby’s Persian rug. Once he’s down, I smother him with my body, hoping that he’ll be all right. He doesn’t fight me.
“I think I’m fine now,” Stone says, his voice muffled by my torso.
“Are you sure? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“I think I’m fine, but I’m having trouble breathing.”
“Oh, sorry,” I sit up, straddling his chest.
“You put the fire out with your boobs,” he says, more than a little surprised. I look down at my chest. There’s a splotch of singed hair on the sweater over my right breast. “Am I dead? Am I bald?”
“I don’t think you’re dead.” I turn his head. He’s got a large bald spot right in the center of the back of his head. Yikes. “Not bald, either,” I lie. “You look great.”
