Heroes Are My Weakness: A Novel

HE FOUND HER STANDING AT the kitchen sink. Last night, they’d cleaned up the worst of the mess, and now she was washing the silverware that had been strewn across the floor. She had her back to him, her run-amok honey brown curls in their customary free-for-all. He’d always been drawn to classically beautiful women, and Annie wasn’t that. His arousal bothered him. But he’d been living without sex for longer than he cared to remember, and it was automatic.

He remembered her at fifteen—awkward, funny, and so smitten with him that he’d felt no pressure to try to impress her. His sexual fumblings were comic now, normal for a horny teenage boy. Maybe the only thing that had been normal about him.

Her plain navy robe came to midcalf with yellow flannel pajamas sticking out beneath. They showed Santa trying to squeeze into a chimney. “Nice jammies.”

“You can go home now,” she retorted.

“Do you have any with the Easter Bunny?”

She turned, one hand on her hip. “I like sexy nightwear. Sue me.”

He laughed. Not much of one—rusty at its core—but still a laugh. There was no darkness about Annie Hewitt. With her big eyes, freckled nose, and scallywag’s hair, she reminded him of a fairy. Not one of those fragile fairies who flitted gracefully from flower to flower, but a preoccupied fairy. The kind of fairy more likely to tumble over a dozing cricket than sprinkle any magic glitter. He felt himself uncoil, just a bit.

She swept her eyes from head to toe. He was used to women staring at him, but they weren’t generally scowling at the time. True, he’d slept in his clothes and needed a shave, but how bad could he look? She frowned. “Do you even have bad breath?”

He had no idea what she was talking about. “I just used your toothpaste, so I don’t think so. Any reason you want to know?”

“I’m keeping a list of disgusting things about you.”

“Since ‘psychopath’ is already at the top of your list, it doesn’t seem like you need to add much more.” He said it lightly, as if it were a joke, even though they both knew it wasn’t.

She grabbed the broom and began sweeping up some rice they’d missed. “Interesting the way you showed up at just the right time last night.”

“I came down to get my car. You remember my car. The one you stole.” He’d told her she could borrow it, but so what?

She was smart enough to pick her battles, and she ignored the accusation. “You made it here awfully fast.”

“I took the beach path.”

She jabbed the broom into the corner. “Too bad you weren’t using your little spy telescope last night. Maybe you’d know who did this.”

“I’ll be more conscientious in the future.”

She went after a noodle wedged under the stove. “Why were you dressed like Beau Brummell that first day?”

It took him a moment to remember what she meant. “Research. Getting a sense of what it feels like to move around in those clothes.” And then, because he could be a real prick . . . “I like to slip inside my characters as much as possible. Especially the more twisted ones.”

She looked so horrified he almost apologized. But why? He gazed toward the cupboards. “I’m hungry. Where’s the cereal?”

She shoved the broom in the cupboard. “I’m out.”

“How about some eggs?”

“Out.”

“Bread?”

“Gone.”

“Leftovers?”

“I wish.”

“Tell me my coffee’s still here.”

“Only a little, and I’m not sharing.”

He began opening cupboards, looking for it. “You obviously haven’t gotten used to island grocery shopping.”

“Stay out of my stuff.”

He found what was left of his bag of ground coffee on top of the refrigerator. She made a lunge for it, but he held it over her head. “Be nice.”

Nice. A rubbish word. One he hardly ever used. The word had no moral weight. A person didn’t need courage for “nice.” “Nice” called for no sacrifice, no strength of character. If only all he’d ever had to do was be nice . . .

He dropped his arm, and with his free hand tugged at the sash on her robe. As the sides separated, he pressed his palm to the skin exposed by the open V at the neck of her flannel pajama top. Her eyes grew wide and startled. “Forget the coffee,” he said. “Take this off so I can see if what’s underneath has gotten any bigger.”

Not nice. Not nice at all.

But instead of slapping him as he deserved, she regarded him with an unsettling disgust. “You’re demented.” With a scowl, she stomped away.

You got that right, he thought. And don’t forget it.