Sweet & Wild

Chapter One

ONE

INT: Father’s Office. The room is dark and filled with sinister shadows. Rich panelling and old-money details line the walls. A massive, ornate desk with a leather top sits like a throne in the far side of the room. The leather chair behind the desk is turned away from the door.

HAILEY approaches the desk slowly.

HAILEY: Father?

There is no response. She comes closer, clearly not wanting to spin the chair around but knowing she must do so. She reaches for the chair and turns it. 

CLOSE UP a body burnt to a crisp, the blackened skull open in a silent scream.

This was so stupid. The script pages slipped into my lap and I let my head drop back against the canvas cushion of the deck lounger. The sun beat down on the smooth white surface of the patio and soaked into every inch of skin not covered by my bikini. 

Whatever. It was just for fun, anyway. And besides, what had I been thinking, trying to write a screenplay while lounging poolside?

The hammering next door started up again.

Especially not when there were so many distractions out here. 

I adjusted my oversized sunglasses on the bridge of my nose and cast a furtive glance over the elegant wrought iron fence toward the rooftop of our next-door neighbor the Gardners’. I had no idea where Mrs. Gardner had found her repairman, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the listing in the phonebook read “Handyman, Hot.”

He was tall and built, and seemed to be allergic to shirts. At least, he never wore any when he was working on the back and side porch of the house, turning what used to be a dated, enclosed porch into a gorgeous, modern outdoor kitchen and patio area my mother had already made several envious comments about. Me, I just envied whoever got a glimpse of the handyman without the fence in the way.

I’d been watching him work on a regular basis since getting back from Europe last month, and I’d yet to see so much as a t-shirt cover up his broad shoulders and washboard abs. There was a tattoo high up on one muscled arm of some kind of sunburst design, and I’d caught glimpses of another—writing I couldn’t quite read—down near his waistline. His hair was cropped so short I couldn’t tell if it was brown or blonde, and he was too far away to make out eye color, but his smile, when he showed it, was almost blinding. You could see it from space.

He caught me staring. He smiled. Somewhere, no doubt, a satellite fell from the sky.

I rolled my eyes and pushed my sunglasses back up on my nose. Showtime. I sat up and released the clip holding my long, blonde hair up off my neck. I shook my hair out and stretched, feeling the movement tug at the material of my bikini top. I cast a glance over my shoulder at the Gardners’ roofline.

Hot Handyman had leaned back to watch, his shapely arms draped casually across his knees. 

I rose from the chair and walked—no, I can be honest—strutted across the patio. When I reached the deep end, I put my hands up over my head in a pose perfected over years of swim lessons, and entered the water with a dive so smooth it barely splashed. When we’d put in the pool, Dad had paid a veritable fortune for the dark glass tiles that covered every inch. He said it looked more elegant. I knew what I looked like against this backdrop, too, a glimmer of sun-drenched hair and skin covered with a two scraps of white and green fabric. Let’s face it: the pool was probably best observed from a nearby roof, so at least I was giving Hot Handyman something pretty to look at. 

One lap down, one lap back, and my lungs began to burn. Once more down the pool, and then I surfaced in the shallow end to take a breath and slick my hair back. I checked out the audience.