How to Misbehave (Camelot 1)

Chapter One

Friday, July 16, 1999

When the tornado siren began to scream, Amber was alone in the building with him.

Him.

The foreman. The guy with the deep tan and the hard hat and the oh-my-lord arms.

Everybody had a different name for him. One of the lifeguards called him “the Italian Stallion.” A patron had referred to him as “Mr. Yummy.” Rosalie, the weekday receptionist, said his name was actually Patrick Mazzara, and he was trouble.

Amber just thought of him as “him.”

She thought of him a great deal more than was good for her.

Gusts of wind flung the sound of the siren at the building, drowning out whatever noises he might have been making behind the thick plastic curtain that separated the construction zone from the rest of the center. But he was definitely over there.

Knowing when he left was part of her job. As program director, Amber opened Camelot Community Center at seven in the morning and locked up at five. Sometimes, like today, she had to wait around for him after everyone else had gone home. She would sit behind the counter of the tall, curved reception desk and imagine herself pushing aside the plastic curtain to ask when he might be finished cleaning up. It’s twenty after. I need to head home.

She never actually did it, though. She’d never been brave enough to initiate the conversation, and there was nothing so pressing on her agenda that she couldn’t wait for him.

Except, right now, the siren seemed kind of pressing. Herding all the people in the center down to the basement in the event of an emergency was another one of Amber’s responsibilities, which meant she should probably get off her tush and round the man up.

But then she’d be alone with him in the basement.

The notion simultaneously thrilled and frightened her. On the one hand, it felt a little bit like Providence tapping her on the shoulder. Is this what you wanted? Here you go! Carpe diem!

On the other hand, she was female and alone. She didn’t go into dark basements with strange men, and especially not with large strange men who’d been described to her as “trouble.” Because what if? What if seven hundred different horrible things happened?

Smart girls didn’t ignore the what-ifs.

They didn’t ignore tornado sirens, either.

She might have sat there forever, immobilized by indecision, if the phone hadn’t rung at the exact same moment his shape materialized as a red-and-blue blob behind the plastic sheeting.

“Camelot Community Center. This is Amber. Can I help you?”

“Why are you still by the phone? Don’t you hear the siren?”

Her mother. Perfect.

“Yeah, I hear it.”

He shoved the curtain aside and walked across the lobby, past the desk toward the front doors. Surely he wasn’t—

“—have to go to the basement,” her mother continued. “It’s not safe near all that glass. Really, you should be—”

He was. The man pushed open one of the entry doors, and Amber shot out of her chair.

“Hey!” She dropped the phone and scooted quickly around the desk. “You can’t go out there. The siren.”

When he frowned, he looked even more intimidating than usual. “I’m only checking it out.”

He had the door propped open with his right arm and leg. Not leaving.

“Right. Sorry.” All the blood in her body attempted to relocate to her cheeks. “I’m, uh, supposed to take you down to the basement. Hold on a second, and I’ll get off the phone.”

She crossed back to the desk in a rush and leaned way over to retrieve the phone from the far side. “Mom, I have to go. Be safe. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“The guy from the construction company.”

She didn’t know if he was technically the foreman or the owner or what. He seemed to boss a lot of people around, particularly another man who looked like a shorter, angrier, tattooed version of him, but he also did plenty of work.

She’d mentally designated him the foreman on the basis of the fact that he seemed to come and go as he pleased. He did half days sometimes and skipped other days altogether, which made her think he was off running the show at another site.

“You mean that man who keeps you late? You can’t go down to the basement with him.”

“Of course I can. I have to.”

“He’s a stranger.”

“Yes, but there’s a tornado.”

The storm noise died down as the door eased shut behind him.

His boots squeaked over the polished linoleum of the entryway, and then metal clicked on plastic as something hit the desk beside her.

She looked sideways. His belt buckle. Holy Toledo.

“I know there’s a tornado,” her mother was saying. “That’s why I called. But you can’t go running down into the basement with a man. It’s unsafe.”

“I think this is one of those situations where you have to pick your poison, Mom.”

“Ask him his name, at least, so if something happens I can report him to the authorities.”

“His name is Patrick Mazzara.” Her face got even hotter. Why not just wear a sign that read, I Know Your Name Because I Have a Huge, Inappropriate Crush on You? “I have to go.”