You May Now Kill the Bride (Return to Fear Street Book 1)

“Uh.” I made a soft, startled cry as he pulled his head back. Then he used the board to push me off him. Gently, but he still pushed.

I stood there openmouthed, heart pounding, the taste of his lips on mine. “Oh. I . . .” I felt instantly silly and then confused and surprised at myself, surprised at what I had done on not even an impulse. I just did it. As if someone had cast a spell on me, and I wasn’t the one in control.

I could feel my face go hot and I knew I must be beet red.

I’ve been impulsive before, especially when guys have been involved. And, believe me, it wasn’t the first time I made the first move.

But I’d never been so wrong.

I cared about Marissa. I would never try to start a family fight. A battle over tall, blond Aiden. No. No, I wouldn’t.

But there we were gazing at each other. Talk about awkward. And what did I want? I only wanted to kiss him again.

Finally, I felt I could talk. I forced a laugh. “Sorry,” I said. “Just had to get that out of my system.” I can make a joke out of it. “Welcome to the family,” I said.

That made him smile. “Your sister warned me about you,” he said.

I couldn’t keep the surprise off my face. “Seriously? What did she say? That I’m a slut? That I’m crazy? That I’m jealous of her?”

He shrugged. “I’m not saying.” His eyes kind of twinkled. Like it was all a big joke to him.

He picked up the beer bottle and drank again, his eyes on me. “Harmony, do you really want me to help you?”

“Yes.” I took the shelf from him. “I need you to hold this steady.”

He stared at it. “Hold it?”

“I need to drill four holes in the corners. For the dowels. But my drill press table is only twenty inches. The board doesn’t fit on the table.”

I tugged him over to the drill press. I held the shelf over the table to show him. “So I just need you to hold it in place.”

He ran his fingers over the drill bit. “Isn’t this too big?”

I shook my head. “It’s a quarter-inch drill bit,” I said. “The dowels will fit snugly inside the holes.”

Aiden seemed to have forgotten my crazy kiss ever happened. But I still felt jittery, light-headed. I wondered if he would tell Marissa about it later.

If he did, I’d be dead meat.

He finished the beer and set the bottle down on the floor. “Harmony, how many shelves do you want to do?” he asked.

“Just two,” I said. “I know you want to get back upstairs. It won’t take long. Really.”

He gave me that smile again. “Let’s do it.”

I powered up the drill. The bit made a high, shrill whirring sound and then, as it reached full speed, sent out a steady hum.

I slid the shelf upside down onto the drill press table. I moved it in place. I used a tape measure to measure the distance from the edge of the board. Then I lowered the drill bit halfway, testing the location. Yes. I had the right spot.

“Aiden, hold it steady here. By the edge,” I said. I scooted to the left to make room for him.

He stepped beside me and carefully grabbed the board by the edges with both hands.

Slowly, I lowered the whirring drill bit to the shelf. Turning the dial, I moved it down half an inch, then half an inch. I gritted my teeth as the bit dug into the wood. I was determined not to let it cut all the way through. That would ruin a perfectly good shelf.

I raised the bit and blew the wood dust from the hole. Perfect.

“One down,” I said.

He helped me turn the board on the drill table. I adjusted it carefully, measuring again to make sure the hole would go in the right place.

I turned the power back on, and the drill bit began to whir. Slowly, I lowered it toward the corner of the board.

And this was when it happened. This was it. And you have to believe me—please believe me—it was an accident. I never would have done it deliberately.

An accident, I swear. A horrible accident that I see again and again in my dreams.

As I lowered the whirring drill bit, I tripped—on the empty beer bottle, I think. I tripped and my stomach bumped the board. And Aiden’s hand . . . his right hand . . . it shot forward.

I saw it. I saw the drill bit dig into the back of his hand. The bit tore into the back of Aiden’s hand and buzzed right through his hand. The bit drilled into the back of his hand and poked out through his palm.

And before he could even scream, a spray of bright red blood splashed over me, over my face, over the front of my shirt. And the blood spun out in a wide circle, a circle of glistening red. I saw red petals like a flower. I saw a pinwheel of blood.

I guess I went crazy. And then Aiden’s shrill wail broke into my daze. Howling like an injured animal, he snapped his hand free of the drill bit. I could see the hole in his palm. I could see the blood and the veins inside his hand. And his flesh . . . it looked like raw meat.

And now we both were screaming. And the blood wouldn’t stop. Aiden was squeezing his hand shut with his other hand. But the blood oozed everywhere. And our screams rang off the ceiling. Shock and horror and blood. That’s what I remember.

It was an accident. A horrible accident.

The hole went right through his hand. But it wasn’t my fault. I swear. I swear.

But I know I’ll never force that picture from my mind. Never get over the shock . . . and horror . . . and blood.