Page 111 of Spark

“Yay!”

I get onto my tippy toes and reach as far back as I can. “What the heck?” I mutter. “How on earth is this the most convenient place to put something he uses all the time?”

“Men,” Laila says with a scoff. “God knows how their brains work with all that testosterone telling them to do stupid shit.”

I’ve got the barest of grasps on the blender’s base with my fingertips, and I carefully drag it toward me, intending to catch it when it tips toward me off the shelf. But when that moment comes, catastrophe strikes: the base of the thing detaches and falls smack into my upturned face.

I scream loudly, waiting for searing pain to strike from whatever broken bone the fallen object has inflicted upon me. But to my surprise, the pain doesn’t come, and whatever fell caused only a benign clunking sound when it hit the countertop beneath my upturned face.

I open my eyes and discover the blender is still completely intact and sitting on the edge of the shelf—and the thing that fell onto the countertop is a book. And not just any book.It’s Kendrick’s journal.At the realization, I scream again.

“What’s happening?” Laila shouts. “Did you fall? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine. I got hit by Kendrick’s lyrics notebook!”

“Ruby!”

“Sorry, but this is like winning the lottery, babe.”

Greedily, I get down from the chair and stare at the journal on the counter. Yes, I promised not to open it ever again, and I’ve kept that promise.

Until now.

Because, come on, now that it’s fallen from the sky and hit me in the head, literally, how could Kendrick possibly blame me for flipping it open and finally reading “Spank”?

Okay, yes, that would be a betrayal of his confidence, technically. But a tiny one, all things considered. Especially now that he’s spanked my ass, fucked my ass, and made me squirt all over his cock. I mean, come on, I’m only human, after all. And we’ve come a long, long way since he demanded that promise from me. Surely it’s expired by now, right? Or at least become obsolete?

“I have to go,” I choke out, my fingers twitching and my eyes trained on the forbidden book.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m great. I just have to go now.”

“My god, you’re a screamer,” Laila mutters with a laugh. “Lucky Kendrick.”

I can’t laugh at Laila’s joke; I’m too wound up by the sight of that notebook sitting on the counter, screaming at me to pick it up right fucking now.

“Thank you for everything, Laila.”

“Anything for you. Keep me posted!”

“I will.”

After saying goodbye, I disconnect the call, grab the journal breathlessly, and furiously begin flipping its pages toward the back. In record speed, I find the entry for “Spank.” And for a split second, I look up, feeling guilty. But after a short moment of sainthood, my baser instincts take over again, and I give myself permission to return to Kendrick’s messy, urgent handwriting.

“Spank”

Lying awake

My body staging a coup

Can’t have you, but

These embers are brewing

Can’t have. . . you? I didn’t see that coming. Who’s you? Also, wait,embersare brewing?

My brain clacking and whirring, I look back up at the hastily written title. And suddenly, with sober eyes and theword “embers” in my pocket, it dawns on me Kendrick’s rushed, slanted handwriting doesn’t spell out“Spank”at the top of the page.Holy crap.It’s now clear as a bell to me: that word spells out “Spark.”

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