Fangs & Fins Chapter One Sampler

Chapter One: Ember

Someone must have invented sweat-resistant business suits.

Because I had no other explanation for why these movers were all dressed like they were about to hold an 8 a.m. conference in a boardroom overlooking Manhattan.

"How can they see where they're going?" asked Ivy across the kitchen table, her slightly husky voice low. She held a torn-off chunk of bagel halfway to her mouth, her jaw hanging open as she stared at them.

There was that, too. All of them wore sunglasses. Sunglasses and suits. I supposed they looked more like bodyguards than businessmen. Which made even less sense.

"Don't stare," said Ivy, averting her eyes as one guy—he seemed younger than many of the others, but who could tell behind those shades?—breezed past her and deposited a big brown box with "Kitchen" scrawled across the side atop the already-cluttered counter.

"Oh! Sorry," I said, jumping up and running to grab the assortment of half-used dish towels, dirty dishes, and junk mail covering the counter. "I guess we should have cleaned this stuff up." I locked eyes with him—or I think we did, as his sunglasses turned my way anyway—and something like fire shot up my body.

I couldn't even see all of his face, but somehow, deep down in my bones, I could tell he was hot. I had a knack for that. I'd yet to translate said talent into anything resembling a boyfriend or even a date past that third grade social Mom had forced our then-neighbor's son to accompany me to. But I sure could pick them. In my head.

I broke off our stare first when Ivy cut between us and pulled open a cupboard. "Since you had, like, zero notice before three people moved into your house, I think you get a pass." She frowned, shutting it and opening the next one.

"A glass?" I asked, moving around her to pull open the proper cupboard. The hot mover guy stepped aside and headed back toward the hallway leading to the propped-open front door, but he did linger slightly, his head turned over his shoulder. I wished I could see his eyes. My instinct was telling me they were sexy and vibrantly-colored—whatever color they may have been.

"Thanks," said Ivy, but there was a smirk on her face when I turned back to face her. I realized I was holding the glass I'd taken out for her in the wrong direction. It was a hair's breadth from clinking against the window over the sink overlooking our backyard and the line of trees that led to the woods behind our property. That was what I got for staring after Mr. Sunglasses Mover instead of watching what I was doing.

"Sorry," I said, handing the glass over. Ivy approached our fridge and made herself at home, pulling out the orange juice her dad had put in there the night before. Apparently, she and Autumn liked the pulpy kind, which meant we'd now be stocking two types of oj in our already-crammed shelves.

It took me a moment to remind myself that she was making herself at home because this was her home now. Her dad was going to be here all the time, and she and her sister were going to live here half the week. Her sister. My sister. My step-sister anyway. Ivy Sheppard, one of the most popular Union High students, was now my step-sister.

True, it hadn't happened until I was eighteen and a senior in high school, but at least I could say I'd finally had my wish granted and gotten a sister. There was Daryl, Dad's son from his first wife, but since Dad was mostly out of the picture, Daryl was no more than a distant blip. He'd friended me on Facebook a few years ago, but we commented on each other's posts so infrequently, Facebook had long ago decided not to bother showing us each other's posts unless we somehow managed to get enough likes to make the algorithm blow up. And since my life had practically zero "blow up" moments to it so far, well...