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more cautiously this time. No one was injured in the process. And apparently Chance had learned a thing or two from the crack on his chin, because he wasn't hovering within striking distance.
    "Not your business," I added defensively, not wanting to explain that Julian was the best friend I'd ever had aside from Addy. I eyed Chance's tall, tousled, irritatingly handsome self, barefoot in tuxedo pants and a wrinkled white t-shirt. The hormonal, frustrated part of me wanted to seduce him with my famous white chicken chili and get him out of those tuxedo pants, but the smarter and bitterer side of me knew he didn't deserve it.
    "How's PB&J sound for lunch?"
    "That sounds good. Crunchy peanut butter?" he asked hopefully, following me into the kitchen.
    "Nope. Smooth and creamy, since any sane person knows that crunchy peanut butter ruins the whole atmosphere of the sandwich."
    Like him, I actually preferred crunchy peanut butter, but my arm was stinging, my head ached slightly from where I had probably smacked it on the floor in my subconscious swan dive out of the chair, and damn it, I was feeling ornery.
    Chance wasn't taking the bait.
    "Smooth is fine." He straddled one of my chairs, and it squeaked a little under his weight. Folding his arms, he rested his chin on them and watched as I bustled around the kitchen, trying to find where the hell I had put that smooth peanut butter I'd bought for no-bake cookies a few months ago.
    I finally gave up and grabbed the crunchy stuff without a word of explanation.
    "So what have you been up to the past few years?" Chance was making an obvious effort to clear some of the tension from the room.
    "Nothing much." I slapped the strawberry jelly across the bread. I wasn't cooperating.
    At a loss, he drummed his fingers on the table.
    More seconds were ticked out by the cat clock while I tried not to feel his eyes boring into my back. Between us hung 10 years of unfinished history.
    "Lucky—" he started, but the rest of what he was going to say seemed to stick in his throat. Was it going to be an apology? An explanation? My shoulders went rigid and I stopped what I was doing, waiting for him to come out with whatever it was.
    Chance finally broke the uncomfortable silence by clearing his throat. "I gotta pee," he unceremoniously announced, and headed for the restroom.
    I thought I was finally going to get some closure and he had to pee? Trying to distract myself from all of the recriminations that were about to explode out of me, I glanced out the window over the kitchen sink into the wet yard below. A white van down the block advertised Candy's Cleaning Crew. Inwardly, I snorted. Candy had an unfortunate affection for alliteration, and some illegal, super dark tinted windows.
    I turned to set Chance's plate of PB&J's on the dinette table, and tripped over Louie, who was silently sitting behind me. The delicate, daisy-patterned dish in my hand went flying, following the two sandwiches, and broken glass sprayed the back of my head as I went down on my face.
    I was stunned for a second by the fall. My eyes struggled to focus on the first thing I saw. An unbroken, daisy-patterned dish. 
    And I was surrounded by clear glass shards.
    I was still puzzling over that as the bathroom door banged open and Chance came charging out, demanding to know what the hell had just happened.  Finally, it clicked.
    Holy shit. Candy's Cleaning Crew had just shot out my kitchen window.
     
     
     
    Chapter 8
     
    My eyes flew wide open as this realization dawned, and I scrabbled across the floor to where Chance stood.
    "Down… get down…," I panted, frantically tugging on his pants.
    "What the hell, Lucky!"
    "You idiot—someone just shot out my window! Get down!"
    "How hard did you hit your head this time?" he asked, concern written all over his face.
    Chance sank down on his haunches, just as another bullet shattered the centerpiece of my salvaged crystal chandelier and wedged itself in the plaster of my