The Bff Bride

So why, darn it, had there been something so stupidly sexy about him sitting there with one?

It was insane.

Maybe it went along with that whole bad-boy appeal thing.

Not that Justin had ever been a bad boy.

He’d just been the boy who got away.

She pushed open the door. “You coming in or going to stand there and wait while I find the key for the empty unit?” It was pretty much an excuse. She knew where the key was. She just wasn’t all that anxious to hand it over to him.

But then, she wasn’t all that anxious to have him inside her home, either. As it was, she thought about him often enough without him ever having stepped foot inside.

He bent over and retrieved the crumpled cigarette butt and stepped through her doorway, pushing the door closed behind him. “Trash?”

She gestured to the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by only a bat-wing-shaped breakfast bar. “Under the sink.” She chewed the inside of her cheek, watching him cross the room. “The empty unit is on the other end. Floor plan’s just like mine. Two bedrooms. Fireplace. One bath. Furnished, which I assume you heard. Minimally, though, so don’t expect all the comforts you’re used to. You’ve got a utility room, but no washer and dryer.” And she’d be hanged if she would offer the use of hers. He had plenty of family around Weaver he could ask, and if not them, then there was a brand-new Laundromat out on the other side of town by Shop-World.

“I don’t care what the floor plan is or whether there’s a washer and dryer. I don’t know what luxuries you figure I’ve got in Boston. I don’t have a washer and dryer there, either. Long as it has running water and electricity, I’m good. What prompted you to buy this place?”

She raised her shoulders, a little thrown by the abrupt question. “I don’t know.”

He gave her a look.

She pressed her lips together. “Fine. With all the new building going on at the other end of town, some of these old places are starting to go vacant. The original owner—do you remember Mr. Samuelson? He had that bait-and-tackle shack—” She made herself stop rambling. “Anyway, he died. Had no family. There was talk about an investor who wanted to buy this lot and the house next door, but only to raze them and put up a convenience store.”

He grimaced.

“Right. That was my reaction, too. Plenty of new building going on at the other end of town. But downtown here? It’s charming just the way it is. Anyway,” she hurried on, skipping the rest of her reasons, “it’s close enough to work that I can usually walk.”

“Like you did today.”

“Obviously.”

“Even though when you walk to work, it’s early. And pitch-dark.”

“So?”

He sighed. “Christ, Tabby. That’s practically the middle of the night. You shouldn’t be out walking—”

“—the three very short blocks in this town where nothing ever happens?”

“Why didn’t you charge Sloan McCray this morning for his coffee and roll? It’s not because he works for the sheriff’s department. You charged that blonde lady deputy for hers.”

Tabby clamped her lips shut. The fact that he’d asked told her that he already knew.

“He busted a guy who was trying to rob the diner, that’s why.” Justin pressed his hands flat on the granite-topped breakfast bar and stared at her. “Yeah, I asked and heard all about it. He busted in. While you were there. Alone before hours. With the damned door unlocked.”

“And for a year after it happened, I kept the door locked,” she snapped. “Until I got tired of having to stop what I was doing and go unlock it every time I turned around, because half this town knows I’m there long before six when the place officially opens and stops by, anyway!”

“You need to be more careful.”

“I locked my house door, didn’t I?” She realized she was yelling and let out a long breath. “I’ll get your key,” she muttered and hurried down the hall.

She used the spare room as a studio and office. She found the key in the bottom of an empty coffee can that also held her clean paintbrushes and returned to the living room.

He was still standing in the kitchen, and she set the key on the granite. “There you go. Rent’s due in advance.” She blamed the devil for prompting her to make that up right then and there.

He spread his hands. “Not exactly packing a checkbook here, Tab.”

“The bank’s open until five. But you’ll have to park a few blocks away because of the traffic in town for the pool tournament.”

He sighed a little and pocketed the key. “Who lives in the middle unit?”

“Mrs. Wachowski. She used to teach history at the high school—”

“I remember her. She was ancient when we were in school. Surprised she’s still around. She must be a hundred and twenty by now.”

Tabby didn’t want to feel amusement over anything he said, but the retired teacher had seemed ancient when they were teenagers. And she would have been totally displaced, just like Mr. Rowe, who was seventy and lived in the house next door, if someone hadn’t purchased the triplex. “She’s eighty-five. And she’s very nice, but she’s a light sleeper. So if you’re still prone to blasting old Van Halen when you can’t sleep, be aware.”

“I played it when I studied,” he corrected her. “And it was AC/DC. Not Van Halen.”

“Whatever.” She was blithely dismissive. As if she didn’t remember very well what it had actually been. She went to the door and opened it. “Don’t forget the bank.”

He crossed the room and stopped in front of her, so close she could see the faint lines radiating from his violet eyes. “I don’t forget anything.”

Her palm felt slippery clenched around the doorknob. “You forgot we were friends,” she said huskily.

“I didn’t forget that, either.”

Her throat went tight, and she damned the sudden burning she could feel behind her eyes. “Fine. Whatever.” She just wanted him to go.

“Tabby—”