Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(63)

Fuck.

I snag the flaming fabric and fling it in the sink, then turn the faucet on. “Get out,” I tell her. The smoke’s not too thick—I don’t think anything else is burning—but the smoke alarms are still going off and the towel’s still flaming in the sink.

I turned on the wrong fucking burner.

I turned on the wrong fucking burner.

And there was a fucking towel on it.

And I nearly burned Beck’s house down.

After promising her that would never happen.

“Hi, yes, there’s a fire,” I hear her say. “It’s at… Oh my god, I don’t know the address. Beck’s house. Beck–Beck—what’s my last name? Yes! Beck Ryder’s house. On the mount—yes!”

The alarms are screeching. She grabs my arm. “Wyatt. Out. Both of us. 9-1-1 says we have to get out. Now.”

I spray the last of the embers and check the stove, which is off. “It’s out, Ellie.”

“You are not going to die in a house fire on my watch, goddammit, get the fuck out!” she shrieks.

She doubles over, coughing, then says, “Yes, we’re still here,” and that’s when I hear it.

The high-pitched panic.

“Ellie—”

“Out!”

She’s in a bathrobe, and she’s limping hard. The haze isn’t thick enough to mask it. “Please get out,” she adds, and now there’s a choked sob in her voice, and fuck.

I sweep her up and head for the door. “Okay. We’re getting out. It’s okay.”

As soon as we’re outside, she twists. “Let go.”

Tears are streaming down her face.

“Ellie—”

“No. No. Don’t. Back up.” She retreats down the sidewalk to the driveway. The yard is too sloped for her to head there, and the limp is breaking me. “Yes, we’re outside. We’ll stay out.”

She’s crying.

Ellie’s crying.

Ellie never cries. She tells those tears to back the fuck up and get out of her way.

But she’s crying. On the phone with a 9-1-1 operator.

“It’s my fault,” she sobs. “I ignored the signs.”

“Ellie. Stop.”

Headlights flash up the driveway. The Ryders are back. They stop mid-way to the house, and Mrs. Ryder flies out of the passenger seat. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“We burned the house down,” Ellie sobs, letting her mom gather her up while the alarm blares inside.

“We didn’t—” I start, but my objection is cut off by the wail of a fire engine’s siren in the distance.

“A fire?” Mr. Ryder asks.

“I set a towel on fire. It’s out. It’s fine. It was an accident.”

“It’s because we—we—”

“Ellie, it’s not—”

Sometimes I wish my hair was long enough to pull it out, because that might help distract from the ice-cold fear settling into my chest.

Both the Ryders look at me, but Tucker leaps out of the car, fear written all over his little face, looking so fucking much like the kid I remember being at his age, and my throat closes up and my eyes sting and I grab him tight. “It’s okay,” I say as he starts to cry too.

“Miss Captain Ellie’s crying,” he sobs. “Is the house gonna burn down?”

“Hey, no, no, everything’s fine.” Everything’s not fucking fine.

“Take me home,” Ellie whimpers. “Mom? Take me home. I want to go home.”

“Honey, it’s late,” Mr. Ryder says.

Headlights flash again, but instead of a firetruck, it’s a fire engine red sports car.

Fucking hell.

“Ellie—” I start again while I hug my son and my best friend steps out of his car and the closest people I have left to parents gape at me in utter confusion.

“We can’t, Wyatt,” she says, her words muffled against her mom’s shoulder but still clear as day to me. “We. Will. Die.”

“We—”

“When’s the last time you ever accidentally set a towel on fire? Never. Ever. Because it’s you. You don’t make mistakes. We are not supposed to be together.”

“Ellie, sweetie, what’s all this?” her mom says gently. “Honey, everyone makes mistakes. The house is fine.”

Beck looks up. “My house is on fire?” he asks.

Curiously. Not mad. Just confused.

Despite the alarms still blaring inside.

“No,” I tell him.

“Burned to the ground,” Ellie sobs.

“It’s not—” I start.

“IT WILL BE. Mom. I want to go home.”

Beck looks at me, shrugs in bewilderment, and then saunters to his sister. “C’mon, Ellie. I got you.”

“She’s in a bathrobe,” I say.

“I’m commando,” he offers.

Tucker’s still crying. The sirens are getting louder. And when Beck helps Ellie shuffle past us, she doesn’t look up when she whispers, “I’m sorry, Wyatt.”

Having my arm gnawed off by a bear with dull teeth would be less painful than the searing ache shredding my heart. “Ellie—”