Page 3 of Kind of a Bad Idea

Blargh! I don’t want to be his buddy. I want to be his sex goddess, the object of his fascination, his heart’s desire. I want him to lie awake thinking of me the way I lie awake thinking of him, or at least be unable to resist an invitation to come party with me.

So maybe…

Maybe I should go dance with one of the few single men I’m not related to and consider expanding my horizons. Maybe I’ve finally met a human even more committed to stubbornly sticking to his guns than I am.

I’m about to tell Wendy Ann that we should both head up to the tent and have some fun—let any would-be diners crash the party if they want—when I hear it…the rumble of a motorcycle.

Heart leaping into my throat, my nervous system lights up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. The hairs lift at the back of my neck, my lips start to buzz, and suddenly, it’s all I can do not to break into a victory dance in the middle of the drive.

Because I would know that softly-purring engine anywhere.

That’s Seven’s vintage, two-tone Chief, the one I helped him rebuild last summer, while obsessing about how sexy he looked with sweat running down into the neck of his white cotton t-shirt as we toiled in his garage.

He’s here! He came!

We’re about to spend our first Sprout-free evening together since the night we guarded her chickens from a particularly determined fox in his backyard last spring. Since the night he ran his fingers over my face, told me I was beautiful, and came so close to kissing me that I would have sworn he felt the potential simmering between us, too.

The sexual tinder waiting for a spark to set it ablaze…

“Woah, who’s that?” Wendy Ann asks, sitting up in her lounger as Seven rumbles up the drive, bypassing the parking area and heading straight for us.

“That’s Seven.”

“Holy sexy beast and a half,” she mutters, popping to her feet beside me. “No wonder you have a crush. He’s outlandishly good-looking.”

“Outlandishly,” I agree.

“His hair is like a luxurious pony mane,” she breathes. “And I think his thighs are as big as my entire body.”

“He has amazing thighs,” I murmur, fighting a goofy grin as he draws closer. Discreetly, I flap a hand at Wendy Ann. “Now scram.”

“No way, I want to meet him,” she says, pushing her glasses up her nose. “You never let me meet your boyfriends.”

“Yes, I do,” I counter, raising my voice to be heard over the approaching engine.

“No, you don’t. You always made me go upstairs to my room before your boyfriends picked you up.”

“That was in high school, when you were an annoying middle school goober. And he’s not my boyfriend,” I say, with a soft swat on her thigh. “But fine. Just play it cool, okay?”

But I don’t get the chance to see if my sister is capable of playing it cool. The moment Seven swings off his bike—before I can begin the introductions—he jogs toward us with a frantic look in his dark eyes, demanding, “Is she here?”

I blink. “What? Is who here?”

“Sprout,” he says, running a hand over his head, smoothing the hair that’s escaped from his ponytail away from his face. “Mom went upstairs to take a shower. When she came back down, Sprout was gone.”

My fingers fly to my throat as panic dumps into my bloodstream. “Oh my God. Was there any sign of a break-in or?—”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “And Mom said she was complaining about missing the party before she went upstairs. Sprout saw the reception invitation you sent and has been begging me to take her all week.”

“You should have told me. You could have both come. But no, I haven’t seen her.” I turn to Wendy Ann. “What about you? Did you see a little girl with long, wavy brown hair the same color as Seven’s sneak in at some point before I got down here? Or maybe while I was helping Aunt Cindy up the hill?”

“She would have been wearing a green dress,” Seven adds, his voice vibrating with worry as he shifts his focus to Wendy Ann for the first time.

Wendy Ann bites her bottom lip, shaking her head. “No, I don’t think?—”

“Green and white stripes,” Seven cuts in. He motions around his waist, holding his hands out a good foot from his hips. “With a fluffy, scratchy thing underneath that makes it stick out. My mom said it was missing from her closet.”

My sister’s forehead smooths as her brows shoot toward her hairline. “Oh, yes, maybe! There was a little girl in a fluffy dress like that with the Simons. I assumed she was their granddaughter or something, but maybe not. They should still be up there. No one’s left yet.” She motions toward the tent, but Seven is already on the move.

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