Going Under (Wildfire Lake 2)

I glance at the time again. It’s midnight, and I’ve been at this for three hours. I can’t take it anymore. I transfer the number on my hand into my phone and text. Still awake? It’s Ben, from the hospital. I’m caught in a maze of bunk bed parts, and I can’t get out.

I hit Send, drop my head back against the wall, and close my eyes. I must have fallen asleep, because the sound of my phone wakes me. It’s KT texting me back.

I’ll put the bed together if you deal me Advil. I’m out.

I smile and type You got it along with my address. Then I get to my feet and move to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and run my hands through my hair. I’m still just as lame with women as I am with furniture construction, both things I should have figured out by now.

By the time I’ve pulled Advil from the medicine cabinet, there’s an almost inaudible knock on the front door. I didn’t expect her so quick. No time to change, so I jog downstairs in my sweats and a tee shirt, and find KT on the porch, holding an orange canvas bag with the name of a tool company emblazoned on the side. She’s wearing leggings, cross-trainers, and a hoodie, her hair in a messy bun on the back of her head. I instantly like her even more.

“Hey,” I say in a hushed tone. “Thank you so much.”

“First things first,” she says in a stage whisper. “You got the drugs?”

Grinning, I lift the bottle of Advil.

“Thank God.” She takes the bottle and moves into the kitchen where she sets her tools down. “The numbing is gone, and I’m ready to chew my arm off to escape the pain.”

“Want something to take those with?” I open the fridge door. “Juice, water?”

“Juice.”

I pour her a glass, then find her struggling to get the bottle open. I take it from her, open it, and drop four pills into her hand.

She tosses them back and downs the glass of juice, then sighs. “Thanks.” She hands me the glass, picks up her bag, and asks, “Where’s our patient?”

That makes me laugh. Like, really laugh. And the situation is only made funnier by the fact that we’re both trying to be quiet.

“Upstairs.” I gesture toward the wide curving staircase leading to the second floor. “Last room on the right.”

When KT steps into the bedroom, she looks around at the unpacked boxes and general disarray I’ve pushed into one corner of the room, then stands over the bunk bed a long moment, her gaze skimming the parts.

“Sweet deal, dude,” she says in a whisper. “It’s half playhouse, half bunk bed. What a killer idea. I want one.” When I laugh, she smiles at me. “Where are the kids?”

“They’re in my bed. They always start off in their own beds, then migrate to mine at different times of the night.”

“We won’t wake them?”

“No, it’s on the other side of the house.”

She nods and returns her gaze to the bed. “Your girl’s gonna love this.”

There is something about her that’s so fresh and unexpected. Her humor is dry, her manner matter-of-fact. There are no games even in the proximity of her agenda, and I can honestly say I’ve never met a woman like her. The MD behind my name doesn’t seem to intimidate or impress her, and she’s at home in this house—a house that made me stand in awe when I first saw it. I also get the impression she has no freaking idea how gorgeous she is.

“She’s not gonna love it if it’s like this in the morning,” I say.

“Heck no. This won’t be too hard. Though it may take longer than I expected. It’s so detailed. There are a lot of parts.” She picks up the booklet of assembly instructions and flips through the pages, then leans down to feel the material of the major components. “Real wood. It’s going to be heavy. I’m going to have to have you do the manual labor until the Advil kicks in.”

I spread my hands over the carnage on the floor. “Just tell me where to start.”

“Have any wine? We should start there.”

“Wine. Done. Red or white?”

“Whatever.” She sets the tools down and sits on the floor, head bent over the directions.

When I return with glasses and a bottle, I’m half expecting KT to say anything from You’re a fucking idiot to How did you expect to get this done in one night by yourself? But she just pulls out some basic tools—screwdrivers, ratchets, drill.

I pour the wine, then slide to the floor and lean against the wall as she repositions parts with a lot of murmured “This goes here, and that goes there, then comes this, followed by that.”