2. Jess
Jess
A sweet sense of familiarity washes over me as I pull up outside Aiden’s neat heritage bungalow in Peachtree Hills.
He paid way too much for it a few years back and, though the interior is closed-off and dated, my brother loves his house like any normal thirty-one-year-old man would love their human partner.
But not Aiden. Aiden doesn’t do love. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I’m the only girl he’s ever said “I love you” to.
I wipe the sweat off my brow, then open my trunk and retrieve my shabby suitcase and the one household item I snagged from Johnny’s apartment—a weepy lemon button fern in a slightly chipped pink pot.
It was a sad, straggly brown thing when I bought it for fifty-percent off at Green Fingers Market in Greenwich Village.
But, seeing as my own shack of an apartment had zero natural light, I gave it a home in Johnny’s sunny living room window on the Upper West Side.
I pruned and watered that little plant to full, voluptuous health.
Johnny can take my life, but he can never take my favorite houseplant! I channel my inner Braveheart and cackle to myself while hugging Fernie close to my chest. Soil spills on my t-shirt, but I don’t care. It can keep the ketchup and sweat stains company.
I can’t wait to shower. The terrifying murder motel I pulled into last night just outside of Richmond promised free parking and cable TV for fifty-nine dollars a night. What it actually delivered was a mattress made of broken springs, and absolutely no hot water.
I’m just grateful I got out of there alive. And without stumbling upon any dead bodies.
“HEY!” A booming voice cuts through my thoughts, and my precious Fernie almost slips out of my hands.
I wheel around, and I’m startled to see a tall, slim lady and two drooling golden retrievers jogging towards me.
The woman wears designer athleticwear, and carries a large, black backpack that bounces as she runs.
Her blond hair is pulled into a neat ponytail under a baseball cap.
Below the cap, her mouth is screwed up in a grimace.
Her blue eyes glitter like morning frost, and her skin is pink and splotchy.
“Sit, Butch. Sit, Cassidy.” She tugs on her leashes and both dogs drop their butts to the ground obediently. My first instinct is to compliment her on the cool names and ask if I can pet these golden beauties, but the look on the woman’s face makes me take a step backwards instead.
I glance around, but there’s nobody else on the street. Which means she must be talking to me.
“Hi?”
In response, she points at me. Points .
I take another step backwards, getting ready to run.
I lived in New York for long enough to know a crazy person when I see one.
And to know the importance of removing yourself from all possible street altercations.
I look over my shoulder. Aiden’s house is only about ten steps away…
I can easily make a run for it. I’ll even sacrifice Fernie, if I have to.
“Are you Aiden’s?” she asks, her accusing index finger still jabbed in my direction.
The bizarre question catches me so off guard, I forget my plan to flee. “Excuse me?”
“Ai-d-en,” she says slowly. Like she’s speaking to someone very, very dim. “The guy who owns this house? Are you his latest girlfriend?”
I wrinkle my face in disgust, and she adds, “Gal pal? Partner? Conquest? Flavor of the week? Whatever people are calling it these days.”
She waves a cool, dismissive hand—a difficult look to pull off when said hand is attached to two, bright pink dog leashes.
Okay, so she knows my brother’s name. And, apparently, doesn't like him very much. She looks about my age… is she a jilted ex? Oh, please no. I can’t be dealing with that right now. My Heartbreak Hotel quota is full for the month.
“Why do you want to know?” I ask cautiously.
“Because I need a message relayed to him.” She says this like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
“And what would that be?”
“Can you tell your boyfriend to get back to me already? I put a letter through the door a week ago about fence pricing.”
At this point, I’m not sure if she’s some deranged ex-girlfriend of Aiden’s or a terrifyingly persistent fencing saleswoman.
“He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my brother,” I say.
For some reason, she visibly relaxes when I say this. Like, her anger literally drains off her face. Weird.
“Oh!” She adjusts her inexplicably large backpack on her shoulder, then sticks out a hand, suddenly all sweetness and light. “I’m Courtney. Aiden’s next door neighbor. We share a fence.”
“Jess. Aiden’s sister,” I reiterate, peering at the strange woman as I shake her hand. “If you left something for him, he didn’t get it. He’s out in LA right now.”
“Of course he has,” Courtney mutters cryptically. She opens her mouth to say something else, but my overheated, sweaty, exhausted self is in no mood to keep this conversation going.
“Well, nice to meet you.” I step away from her, walking backwards up the driveway. I want to get as far away from Aiden’s rude neighbor as I can.
“If you can let Aiden know I dropped off the fencing information, that would be great,” Courtney says. She tugs her leashes and the golden brother duo climb lazily to their feet. One of the dogs yawns, and I can’t help but smile at how sweet he is.
“Sure will.” I nod.
“I’ll drop by sometime soon.”
Please don’t.
“Okay,” I say with a forced smile. I keep my smile fixed in place as she bounces away, and I watch her carefully to see that she actually lives next door.
When I visually verify that Courtney does, indeed, live next door (or she has a key, at the very least), I retrieve Aiden’s spare set of keys. As expected, they’re hidden under the ugly, googly-eyed garden gnome on the porch.
But, the scene when I walk through the front door is completely unexpected. My mouth falls open in shock, and I almost drop Fernie again.
Aiden’s bungalow has been renovated to the point of being unrecognizable.
The previously boxy, closed layout has been transformed to a fully open-concept main floor, with crisp white walls and white oak floors.
The ceilings are vaulted, drawing attention to gorgeous, exposed roof beams that are stained a rich espresso brown.
The kitchen blends old and new seamlessly, and features shaker-style cabinets and crown molding coupled with stainless steel appliances and subway tile.
The granite island with waterfall edging is to die for.
Not to mention it’s sparkling clean—like, eat your dinner off the floor clean. There’s not a thing out of place.
I am beyond impressed. Aiden must’ve brought in someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
The house’s historical elements are perfectly preserved and merged with the modern features for a look that is pure interior magic.
This is HGTV-worthy. I glance around, half-expecting Chip and Joanna to pop out and yell “surprise!”
When did Aiden do all of this? I’ve clearly been away far too long.
Eager to see the rest of the house, I dump my suitcase and trot down the hallway towards the bedrooms.
And that’s when I hear it.
A creak.
I freeze, statuelike. Brandish Fernie in front of me like a weapon.
There it is again.
Not just creaking—footsteps.
Definitely footsteps.
My heart jumps erratically, banging around in my ribcage like the spin cycle on an old washing machine.
Is it possible that Aiden’s here, pranking me?
I don’t think so.
I swallow painfully, all traces of that strong, independent woman vanishing into thin air. Then, another creak right behind me.
A door opens.
I remain perfectly, painfully frozen. Not by choice, but because I’m utterly incapacitated.
Adrenaline courses through my body, rushing like icy hot liquid in every vein.
This is it. My penance for escaping the murder motel unscathed.
The killer tracked me here—a game of cat and mouse fit for any slasher movie.
And I’m that idiot girl in every one of those movies.
You know—the one you scream and hurl popcorn at because she’s doing absolutely everything wrong.
But, I still can’t move. Where’s my fight or flight instinct? Clearly, it’s broken, because my body is doing neither. My brain also isn’t helping much. It’s turned to a lumpy, useless pile of mashed potatoes.
All I need is a plan. Seriously, any plan would do.
The footsteps get closer.
Within moments, I’ll be lying in a pool of my own blood.
In my mind’s eye, I see my funeral. Friends and family weeping softly. What would my obituary say? Jessica Shaw was a… what, exactly?
Loving sister?
Decent friend?
Mediocre cook?
Proud plant owner?
The footsteps stop behind me.
Great. I’m going to die without achieving anything noteworthy in my life.
I screw up my eyes and prepare for the blow.
Something touches my arm. “Jessica?”
I can’t tell if it’s the sensation of fingers on my bare skin, or the fact that my killer knows my name, but some sort of preservation instinct finally— finally— kicks in. I unfreeze from my trance and whirl around.
“AGGHHHH!!!!” I scream.
After that, everything happens in slow motion.
Fernie flies out of my hands, sending a shower of dirt into the air before the pot smashes on the floor. I charge forward blindly, and my upper body collides with something hard, warm, and wet.
What the—?
I put my hands out to steady myself, and they immediately make contact with what feels like a strong, muscular chest. But, as firm as my killer’s very fit, bare chest is, my palms slip against his damp skin, and I go tumbling to the floor in a heap.
I land unceremoniously on top of what’s left of poor Fernie.
I lie still for a moment, eyes closed as I curl into the fetal position to wait for my fate.
But, instead of a blow to the head, someone swears.
I blink my eyes open in surprise.
And find myself staring at a man who looks more like a Greek god than a man.
He’s kneeling next to me, his dark green eyes crinkled with concern. I can’t help myself—my eyes roam over an angular jaw, full lips, tousled golden brown hair and— oh my gosh —that chest. This guy isn’t just fit. He has muscles on his muscles. And then some.
My eyes travel further south, taking in a tanned, chiselled torso and a glimpse of an inhumanly perfect deep V, just visible above white athletic shorts. Have I died and gone to hottie heaven?
I don’t remember dying.
Clearly, that Ted Bundy movie starring Zac Efron has taught me nothing, because my first coherent thought is that this guy doesn’t look like a murderer. Not one bit. He looks more like the love child of Chris Hemsworth and Bradley Cooper.
Not that that’s possible. But, maybe— hopefully? —in heaven, it is.
Hottie gently lifts one of my hands. “You’re bleeding.”
“Am I dead?” I croak, glancing at the soil-splattered hallway.
He laughs. It’s a warm, rich sound that I want to bathe in.
“No, not dead.” He presses his thumb into my palm and his beautiful lips quirk upward. “It’s just a flesh wound. A small one, at that.”
I yank my hand away and sit up with a start, head spinning.
“Who are you and why haven’t you killed me yet?” I demand.
Hottie’s lips tug at the corners again, like he’s trying not to laugh.
“I’m Conor Brady.” He looks at me quizzically, as if searching for a flash of recognition. When I don’t answer, he keeps talking. “I haven’t killed you yet because I don’t tend to murder people as a pastime. Especially not houseguests who happen to be my roommate’s sister.”
“Roommate?” I manage. My vocal chords feel like they’ve been rubbed with sandpaper.
“Yeah. I’m staying with Aiden for a couple of months. I take it you’re Jess?” Conor’s shoulders shudder a touch.
He’s still trying not to laugh. Only now, he’s failing.
I peek at him through lowered lashes, mortification pitting in my belly. A furious blush spreads over my skin like a blazing red wildfire.
“Yeah, I’m Jess.” I take ownership of my name like I’m admitting I have a highly infectious skin condition. Conor keeps watching me, eyes dancing with amusement. He clearly thinks Aiden’s little sister is a nutcase.
Not that I blame him.
Well, this is just my luck. The hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life happens to be my brother’s roommate. And I happen to be lying in a sweaty, dirty heap on the floor, accusing him of wanting to ax murder me.
Why couldn’t Conor have just been a psycho killer?
That would have been way less embarrassing.