Page 8 of The First Spark

I cross my arms over my chest and look down at her, a wide grin splitting my face. “You sure are feisty for someone so small.”

Lydia giggles at my comment, but Oriana doesn’t laugh. In fact, I bet money she’s plotting my murder. No joke. If looks could kill, I’d be buried several feet under right now.

Should I have kept my mouth shut? Probably.

Was it worth it to watch the fire ignite in her eyes? Absolutely.

I gear up for round two, but my petite adversary has a different idea.

Oriana averts her eyes as she grabs the books off the coffee table, shaking her head in disgust. “So typical. Lydia, it was lovely meeting you. Andyou”—she hisses, once again pinning me with her gaze—“may you have the day you deserve.”

She storms away, toward a rickety ladder perched against one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Lydia’s eyes widen as she watches Oriana’s departure. “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” I mutter, feeling a twinge of guilt kick in at Oriana’s reaction. Although, it’s not my fault the woman lacks a sense of humor.

“Are you two …” Lydia’s voice trails off as she gestures between Oriana and me.

“Are we what?”

“Sleeping together? Did I step on some toes by coming over here?”

My brows fly up at her intimation. “Me and her? What in the world would give you that idea?”

Lydia shrugs and grabs her purse. “Something about the way you two are together. Your energy.”

“We spend a whole lot of it hating one another.”

“Oh, I get it. Youusedto sleep together.”

What is with this crazy conversation train?

Shaking my head, I gently steer Lydia toward the exit. “We’ve never done anything together, except argue and plot ways to avoid each other. Good enough answer for you?”

Lydia pauses before falling into step with me. “Sure. Guess I read it wrong.”

You sure did, sweetheart.

One thing is for certain: I can’t get out of here fast enough.

But luck is not on my side tonight.

As we stroll past the worn ladder, a gasp sounds above us, only seconds before one of the hardcover books tumbles to the ground with a thud.

Glares from Oriana are one thing, but now she’s throwing crap at me?

After dodging the falling book, I scowl up at the Oriana, gearing up to toss a heated retort in her direction.

But the words die in my throat.

The rickety ladder is on its last legs—literally.

The rung on which Oriana stands is cracked, and with every passing second, her weight, slight though it may be, is testing its last vestiges of strength.

But it’s the look on Oriana’s face that erases the anger from my brain. Her eyes are wide and frantic, her hands wrapped around the sides of the ladder in a death grip.

Grabbing the ladder to steady it, I look up at her. “Come on down. I’ve got the ladder.”

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