by Lauren Layne
He glances down in disgust before looking up at me again as though to say, No mauling strangers, huh?
I ignore him as I wave a hand at the bathroom. “The faucet handle’s broken. Can you fix it?”
Noah scratches his cheek, and I get the impression he definitely wants to tell me to go to hell. “I thought you’d be staying in the master bedroom. I got the plumbing working in there.”
“That’s wonderful! I’ll be sure to see about getting you a gold star. But I’m staying in this room, and this faucet handle is broken.”
He looks as if he’s biting the inside of his cheek in an effort to speak politely. “You understand, right, that I work for Walcott, not you?”
“And I’m sure you understand that I’m paying him good money to rent a working house,” I retort.
His jaw works as he crosses his arms and glares at me. I glare back, and he finally sighs and lets his arms drop again. “Will you please pick up your dog so I don’t step on it?”
“Her. Dolly’s a girl, not an it,” I say as I bend down and scoop up my dog, who is now trying to crawl her way up his shin.
“Keep her out of my way,” he says as he goes to the door.
“Wait, what about my sink?” I ask, following him.
“What do you think I’m going to fix it with, my teeth? I need tools, princess,” he says, not looking back as he heads down the hall.
“Why don’t you like me?” I ask, unable to stop the question.
He turns. Walks backward as he responds. “I’m not getting paid to like you. How about we just stay out of each other’s way?”
“That’s not an answer,” I call as he turns right into another room and disappears.
I don’t get one, but then I hear the low drone of a man’s hum, and the tune’s painfully familiar.
Noah Maxwell is quietly humming “Homewrecker.”
And I guess that’s answer enough.
Noah
I found the caretaker’s cottage.
It’s in about the same shape as the main house, which is to say it’s a strong breeze away from crumbling.
Still, the situation’s not completely hopeless. The old caretakers either had some really messed-up priorities or some really awesome ones, depending how you look at it, because decrepit as the place is, there’s a brand-new state-of-the-art refrigerator and, most shocking of all, a satellite TV dish.
No TV—they likely took it when they moved—but I can remedy that easily enough. Ranger’s made himself at home on the bed, not knowing how lucky he is that he’s a dog and is thus blissfully free from the burden of wondering what the hell those nasty stains on the mattress are.
I find a notepad and ballpoint pen in one of the drawers and begin making a list. TV. Mattress. Groceries. Towels. Common sense…
I drop the pen and run my hands over my face. What the hell am I doing here? Am I actually thinking of living in this hovel when I have a fully furnished penthouse waiting for me in Baton Rouge?
Yvonne’s enraged face flashes in front of my eyes, and I quickly rule out the penthouse as an option, since she has a key.
Still, as the guys pointed out, there are better places to hide out than this dump.
Places that don’t come with a snotty country singer and a cotton-ball dog.
Although maybe it won’t be as bad as I’m thinking. Jenny Dawson’s obviously here to do her music thing, however that works, and there’s more than enough tasks around the house to keep me busy.
Never thought those spring breaks spent participating in Habitat for Humanity would come in handy, but now I’m damn glad I let Finn talk me into it. Not that I’m a master carpenter or anything, but I know enough basics to be useful. More important, I like it. The thought of having a project is appealing.
My dad might have been perfectly satisfied being a figurehead in his own company in his later years, but I need more. I want more than to be Prescott Walcott Jr. I sure as fuck want to be known for more than my golf handicap.
It’s different for Vaughn. Yeah, he inherited his father’s company too, but he actually runs it; he doesn’t just dress in a suit and play the part.
Finn, despite his determination not to care about anything, has his bar in Baton Rouge, which means more to him than he’ll ever admit.
And I’ve got…nothing.
I scribble a few more things on my list, as well as a note to call the cable company when I get into cell range, so that I can set up satellite service as well as a landline. Just because we’re going to be remote out here doesn’t mean we need to be idiotic about it.
“Come on, boy,” I say to Ranger as I pull Finn’s keys out of my pocket. I made Finn switch cars with me, although it didn’t take much arm-twisting. He gleefully took my Audi, since his beat-up truck’s more fitting for a “caretaker.”
And it’s damn handy now that I know I‘ll be lugging home a mattress and a television.
I’m just pulling down the tailgate for Ranger to hop in the back when I hear her.
“Wait. Mr. Maxwell. Noah!”
I groan as Jenny comes out of the house, stupid dog tucked under her arm. She’s traded the sexy sandals for flip-flops, but they do nothing to make her legs less appealing.
“Can I get a ride?” she asks.
Instead of answering, I purposely look at her car. A rental, from the looks of it, but perfectly usable.
“That won’t fit what I need to buy,” she explains.
“Which is?”
“A mattress,” she says. “I brought my own bedding, but the mattress upstairs is…” She wiggles her hand to indicate that it’s iffy. If it’s anything like the mattress in the caretaker’s cottage, I’ ’m guessing iffy doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“I have other stops to make,” I say. “I’ll be gone all afternoon.”
“That’s okay,” she says, apparently mistaking my response as an invitation, because she goes around to the passenger side door and pulls it open.
She hoists herself into the cab with more ease than I expect, as though she’s spent some time around pickups.
I rack my brain trying to remember where she’s from, but I can’t say I know much about country music stars. I did a quick Google search right after her email came through, but I didn’t really get past the dozen or so articles talking about her recent exploits with married men.
I sigh, knowing that at this point getting her out of the truck is going to be more of an effort than just putting up with her.
And since I’m planning on heading to the mattress store myself, it not like she’s adding an extra stop.
I climb into the truck, moving the seat slightly, since Finn’s a couple inches shorter than me. I glance over at Jenny, hoping she doesn’t ask why I’m adjusting the seat in what she thinks is my truck, but she’s too busy fiddling with something orange and hideous on her head.
I pause in the process of jamming the key into the ignition, staring at her in horror. “What the hell is that?”
“A wig,” she says, pulling down the visor to look in the mirror. Only there isn’t one, since it broke long ago, so she turns to me. “How does it look?”
“Awful,” I grumble, meaning it. I’ve got nothing against redheads. Hell, gingers can be plenty hot. But this wig doesn’t suit her at all, and it’s on crooked.
She leans down to look at herself in the side mirror, tugging it slightly. Her cotton ball of a dog has been sniffing around the floor of the cab, munching what seems to be a stale french fry before hopping up and settling all five pounds of its body onto my lap before panting happily up at me.
“Do you think it would look better if I added highlights?” Jenny muses. “And I feel like the lipstick is clashing. Is the lipstick clashing? Noah? Are you listening? Do you think coral would be better? Or is that too much warm tones going on?”
I look from her to the dog, who I belatedly realize is now wearing a pink bow.
No. Just hell no.
What have I got
ten myself into?
More important, how do I get myself out?
Ranger is looking through the back window and barks, although I don’t know if it’s out of jealousy or adoration of the other dog.
I pick up the ball of fluff and deposit it on the seat beside me. Dolly is undeterred, crawling back onto my thigh.
As Jenny fusses with the ugly wig, the dog and I repeat the process twice before I give up. “Could you please hold on to your dog?”
She glances over. “Oh, Dolly. I thought you were a better judge of character.” Jenny sighs and leans over, picking up her dog, fingers brushing my thigh as she does so. She doesn’t seem to notice the contact, but I definitely do, my cock hardening slightly beneath my jeans.
I turn the key, feeling an odd sense of guilt. True, I’m no longer engaged, but up until a week ago, I was.
Shouldn’t there be some sort of mourning period before my dick is itching to get inside another girl? And make no mistake, I definitely would not mind seeing what sort of panties Jenny Dawson is wearing under that little skirt. Or maybe she’s not wearing any. Maybe if I slid my palm along her thigh…
Shit.
Fuck.
I put the truck in reverse.
“What’s with the incognito routine?” I ask, desperate for her to say something annoying to kill my raging boner.
“Well, this may come as a surprise,” she says, running her fingertips over the bangs of the wig, “but I don’t exactly love people spitting on me in public and whispering ‘Jezebel’ under their breath when I walk by.”
I feel another flash of guilt, this time over my humming “Homewrecker” purposely loud enough for her to hear earlier.
The girl may have made some mistakes, but they’re not for me or anyone else to judge. Affairs happen. Married men step out.
I should know. I’m the by-product of one such liaison.
I don’t really know how to respond to that, so I change the subject once again. “We should be within cell range in a few minutes,” I say gruffly. “In case you want to make a call.”
“I didn’t bring my cell,” she says, looking out the window as she pets her little dog. “I’m on an information diet.”
An information diet? “What the fuck is that?”
“You swear a lot,” she says in response.
I shrug.
“The swearing is nicer, though, with the accent,” she muses. “When people in California swear, it’s just swearing. But when you do it, it’s almost…pretty.”
Pretty. Christ.
“You’ve got a bit of a drawl yourself,” I say, not really sure why I’m making conversation.
“A bit,” she says. “Although Nashville’s accent is different than here.”
A Tennessee girl, then. Perhaps that explains her comfort with trucks. Somehow I can’t see her picking that up in L.A.
“How’d you end up in California?” I ask.
She sighs and rubs Dolly’s head. “Great question. I got a little…creatively blocked. My team suggested that a change of scenery might be good. I don’t think they were wrong, but it was the wrong scenery.”
“And Louisiana’s the right one?” I ask skeptically.
“Guess we’ll find out.”
“We won’t be doing anything.”
She rolls her eyes. “Calm down—it was a figure of speech. Believe it or not, I’ve got absolutely zero interest in seducing you out of your whole rugged-bachelor routine.”
“Why, only interested in the married guys?”
Ah, fuck. I didn’t mean to say it, but…there it is. Out there.
She says nothing, although she’s stopped petting her dog. Her hand curls into a fist near her hip as she stares straight ahead.
I clear my throat. “Hey—”
Jenny shakes her head. “Let’s not talk, ‘kay?”
She leans forward and punches on the radio. It’s tuned to country, this being Finn’s truck, and she turns it up loud enough to be almost uncomfortable. But it’s more comfortable than silence, and it’s definitely more comfortable than me having to apologize, so I let it be.
We go the whole miserable drive to Baton Rouge with the radio blaring, not a word exchanged between us.
Only when we make our first stop at Best Buy to pick up my TV do I hazard a quick glance at her, wondering if she’s plotting my slow, painful death.
But it’s not anger she wipes away with a quick swipe of her hand, it’s tears.
And even though I’ve known this girl for all of three hours, none of them pleasant, my mother would have killed me for making a woman cry and then not apologizing for it.
I open my mouth to do exactly that, but she surprises me by stopping me with a cutting glare. “Save it.”
“Look, princess, I—”
She’s already reaching for the door handle. She slides out of the cab, taking her dog with her, and slams the door before I can issue the apology.
I watch as she strides toward the front door without a backward glance, ugly orange wig swishing slightly across her back as she drops her dog into her purse like it’s some sort of accessory.
Slowly she lifts her hand over her shoulder, middle finger extended, just for me.
Jenny
Noah wasn’t lying when he said he had quite a few stops to make.
Every single stop, he tells me I can stay in the car, and every single time I’ve followed him in, Dolly in tow.
By our last stop, at the hardware store, I’m beginning to debate the wisdom of tagging along on this little outing. For starters, Noah barely speaks to me. At all. And when he does speak, it’s generally something crude or rude.
Also, the hardware store? Not my thing. I remember this back from when my dad would take my sister and me there when we were kids, trying to make it seem like it was an amusement park, then quickly switching his tactic to bribe us with ice cream when we realized it so wasn’t.
But Noah hasn’t bribed me with ice cream or any sort of food, so now I’m bored and kind of hungry, and I swear he’s taking his sweet time just to torture me. I’ve resisted whining so far, but I can’t take it anymore.
“Are you almost done?” I ask casually as I reach out and pretend interest in a package of rainbow-colored zip ties.
“Yup.” He doesn’t look up from the electrical tape he’s been perusing for the past five minutes.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
He doesn’t reply, and I sigh, picking up another package of zip ties that look exactly the same but are twice the price. I scrutinize them more closely to try to figure out the difference.
Hey, a girl’s got to do something to keep her brain spry.
“What do you use these for?” I ask Noah, holding up the zip ties. “I mean, other than handcuffs.”
His head snaps up. “Handcuffs?”
“Yeah. Don’t you ever watch TV? People are always getting tied up with these things.”
Noah’s dark gaze grows speculative. “That intrigue you, princess? Being tied up?”
He’s messing with me.
I know he’s messing with me, and I want to play it cool, but I blush anyway, just a little.
The guy can’t be more than a couple years older than me, but he just seems so much more experienced. He seems more confident than most of the guys I’m acquainted with. Confident, but not cocky.
The self-assurance is…attractive.
“How old are you?” I ask, hurriedly putting the zip ties back before my brain goes in directions I don’t want it to.
Nope, too late. I’m already thinking of Noah slowly raising my hands above my head and tying my wrists to the headboard as he touches me everywhere. Hands and mouth all over me, while I can do nothing but lie there writhing, begging…
Oh, wow, is it hot in here?
“Twenty-seven,” he says, finally deciding on the electrical tape he wants and dropping it onto the flatbed-style cart with our two air-conditioning units and a bunch of two-by-fours.
“You?”
“Twenty-two,” I reply. I bite my tongue to keep from blurting out that I’ll be twenty-three in a couple of months, like a third grader who indignantly informs everyone that she’s eight and a half.
Noah studies me, and I shift my feet awkwardly. “What?”
“I can’t decide if you seem older or younger than that,” he replies.
“And I can’t decide if that’s a compliment or an insult,” I retort, although my attention’s no longer entirely focused on Noah.
The woman a few feet behind Noah is pretending to look at extension cords, but she keeps glancing over at me. I’ve seen her a couple of times as we’ve wandered through the store, not really noticing her, but belatedly I realize she’s been noticing me.
My heart starts to pound, and I lift my hand to my wig, tugging it down in hopes it’s doing its job to disguise me.
Noah seems to sense my discomfort, because he glances back toward the woman, the gesture casual, as though he too is looking at the extension cords.
She doesn’t notice him because she’s still too busy studying me, and I see her eyes narrow slightly before she slowly reaches into her purse to pull out her cellphone.
Crap.
Here’s a little fact about famous people: cellphones and their damn cameras are our nightmare.
Once upon a time, celebrities could live a somewhat normal life if they wanted to, but now it’s not just the paparazzi we have to watch out for. It’s everyone. Everyone who’s just dying to catch a celeb eating a donut or with a pimple or in an intimate moment, or hiding out in Louisiana with an orange wig and a grumpy caretaker in a hardware store.
The woman lifts her phone, and I turn away so she can’t get a good shot, but I’m screwed. If I make a quick exit, she’ll know it’s me, and it’ll only be a matter of time before she tells all her Facebook friends, and the cat’s out of the bag that I’m hanging out in the South.
But if I stay, she’ll get a picture and have a chance to study it, and then she’ll also know it’s me. That too will make it onto Facebook.
