(This challenge was more specific than the ones that followed. One character is a critic, the other annoying the critic, who has a deadline to meet.)

“It is, of course, Mr. Harding’s privilege to write whatever he wants, but one questions his judgment in seeking publication. That his publisher agreed—”

The sound of thunder overhead broke David’s concentration. He didn’t look out the window. It wasn’t Mother Nature kicking up a fuss. It was worse. It was Fae doing who knew what as loudly as possible.

          The “thunder” ceased abruptly, replaced by a loud thump that made his elegant—and very old—light fixture sway alarmingly and sent a fine layer of dust drifting down onto his head.

          Bad enough she was an artist, but did she have to be the stereotype of an artist? How hard was it to be bold and different—in a tidy and organized way?

          As a bachelor, he could have gone messy or overly tidy. He’d resisted the both, resisted stereotypical, finding the middle with a life that both satisfied and made sense.

          Was it unreasonable to like boundaries and expect his neighbors to respect them?

          Fae not only didn’t have boundaries, she leapt over them, went under them or crashed through them. She was the total opposite of his very suitable significant other, Dorothea. Fae was opposite to Dorothea in every way. She was messy, annoying, unpredictable, given to emotional extremes, and far too sexy…

          David stopped. Too sexy? Okay, so Dorothea didn’t flaunt it but she had it. She didn’t wear clothes that allowed intriguing glimpses of a smooth, pale stomach. Her dark hair was always tidy, unlike Fae’s white blonde mop. Dorothea had cool blue eyes, instead of puzzling green ones. Dorothea’s lips might not be full and pouting—

          He did not just think the word pouting.

          The thunder overhead started again, interspersed with popping sounds that stopped with yet another thump, this one louder and more ceiling-shaking than the last.

          What the devil was she doing up there?

          He stared at his computer screen, determined to block out all thoughts of his sexy neighbor…

          … That his publisher agreed this book was worthy of pouting—

          He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Deleted pouting. At this rate he’d never get the review in on time. The noise started up again. Louder this time.

With a muttered imprecation, he shoved back his chair and stomped up the stairs. He hit Fae’s door with his fist and it flew open.

          He opened his mouth to shout, but the words stuck in his throat.

          Fae wore dangerously short shorts that revealed her long, perfectly formed legs. Not content with that, the shorts sagged on her hips leaving lots of bare tummy exposed.

          Her skimpy tee shirt gave him an unobstructed view of the enticing curve of her body from shoulder to hips. Her sweaty body.

          That was probably why he didn’t immediately notice she was wearing roller blades.

Had a pillow tied to her back side.

And wielded an odd looking gun.

          A gun?

          “What the hell—?”

Bad move.

She jerked around.

Her knees wobbled.

Her skates shot in opposite directions.

The gun wavered in his direction as she went down with a decided and familiar thump.

          There was that odd pop sound.

Something splattered against his stomach with stinging force.

He looked down.

          Red dripped down his white, silk shirt.

Blood?

He looked at Fae. Words were his life but he produced only three.

          “You shot me.”

Fae lifted her protective eye gear. “Oh.” She blinked a couple of times. “Sorry.”

          Sorry? He was bleeding and all she could say was…he looked at the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Not just red, but blue and green splats. On paper taped everywhere.

It was paint. Not blood. A paint…ball gun?

          David’s mouth worked for a few moments. “What are you doing?”

          Her face lit up with a smile. When Fae smiled birds probably started singing, the sun went into hiding because it couldn’t compete, and hearts stopped in their tracks. At least, his did, despite a stern order from his brain not to go there.

          “I’ve got a gig at Billy Bob’s Bar and Art Emporium. Performance art. Cool, aye? Billy Bob wanted something new and different. Skates, guns and paint. A perfect trifecta of different, I thought. Oh, and a wet tee shirt. So, that’s probably a quar-fecta?”

          He opened his mouth. Closed it.

          She tried to get up, but her feet refused to cooperate.

          Because David was a gentleman, he held out his hand. Hers closed around his. Bad idea. The feel of her skin against his did things to him that touching Dorothea didn’t. It made him forget all about order and calm and life plans. She rose from the floor, her rosy mouth parted and ready to be kissed…

          He forced his gaze down and away, but down wasn’t that much better—until he noticed a series of odd red marks on her arms.

          “Have you got chicken pox?” That should have cleared his thinking, got him to move back, but his body didn’t care he’d never had the chicken pox. It moved closer, until he could smell flowers and Fae. Until he could see the tiny beads of sweat clinging to her skin…

          “Chicken pox?” She looked puzzled, then her face cleared. “Oh, those are from yesterday at the paint ball range.”

She lifted her already short tee shirt, exposing more of her smooth stomach—dotted with red marks.

“I got creamed. Hard to get away on roller blades.”

She wobbled and he had to grab her if he wanted to keep his gentleman credentials. He lost those creds when he pulled her hard against him. The gun dug into his side, but he didn’t care. It felt good to hold her. Too good. He tried to think of what’s her name…

He didn’t have to kiss her.

Okay, maybe he did.

Just to get her out of his system.

He lifted his head.

“Wow.” She looked as dazed as he felt.

Don’t smile. Please don’t smile…

She smiled…

© 2008 Pauline Baird Jones. All rights reserved.