The Six Month Lease (Southern Hearts Club Book 2)

by Melanie Munton

  “Well, Pleased Harper,”—we both grin at the name—“are you going to rescue me from certain death and help me pick out a necklace for my sister’s birthday?”

  I squint in thought, like the request requires deliberation. Then I nod. “Since you asked so nicely. Does your sister have the same color eyes as you?”

  His brow furrows at the random question.

  I huff in mock outrage. “You don’t even remember the color of your own sister’s eyes?”

  He narrows his own, clearly restraining the urge to smile. “I was thinking, thank you very much. And yes, I’d say they’re basically the same color as mine.”

  “All right, then.”

  I step toward him to drag the front necklace off his wrist—he has nearly six dangling off each arm—and place it over his head. Easing back, I tip my head to the side, assessing.

  “You should go with one that matches her eyes. Or one that at least makes them pop.”

  His dumbstruck expression, in combination with the very feminine necklace hanging around his neck, should inspire nothing but amusement. But when his bedroom eyes drop to my mouth as I smile, then glaze over…suddenly, nothing is amusing.

  Only intense.

  As ridiculous as he looks, I can’t find anything humorous enough to merit so much as a chuckle from my constricting throat.

  I glance down at the necklace before gathering my courage to lift my eyes and find his again. “Not that one,” I whisper.

  He nods absently, though I’m not sure he even hears my words.

  I remove the next piece from his arm to place it over his head, on top of the first. I repeat the process of comparing it to his eye color, acting like I’m concentrating and not using it as an excuse to ogle him. Not like I can help it, though.

  No woman could withstand that urge.

  This second necklace is longer, the pendant in the middle falling to rest just between his pecs.

  Part of me thinks I should be rolling my eyes at the absurdity of the situation—helping a random guy pick out jewelry for his sister by making him model them. But the more dominant, womanly parts of me are convinced there is nothing remotely absurd going on here. Maybe a little ludicrous in terms of how drawn to him I’m finding myself.

  “That one might be a little too big,” I say softly.

  He makes a choking sound that he tries to disguise as a cough. It’s not until he shifts his hips around—clearly adjusting himself as discreetly as possible—that I realize what I’ve just said. I’m blushing before he even gets his answering quip out.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

  I bite my lip to hide my grin, then go for the third necklace. This chain is shorter than the first two, leaving little room around his neck. The charms in the center barely reach his collarbone.

  I start wondering what slutty demon has suddenly possessed my body when my next words leave my mouth.

  “How’s that one feel?” My gaze flicks down to the growing bulge between his thighs. “Too tight?”

  His nostrils flare. “Definitely too tight. I think it might be a little too hard to get off.”

  I blow out a heavy breath as that blunt innuendo reaches my ears.

  I must have tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and taken a swan dive down a rabbit hole because this shit never happens to me.

  Like, really, what is happening?

  Because it looks like I want to get it on with a guy I just met two seconds ago in the market. And it feels like I want him to drag me off down the closest alleyway and do me dirty up against the brick wall.

  Slut-sheeba.

  That must be the bitch demon’s name that’s taking control of me. Leave me alone, you devil ho!

  Pretty sure she gives me a boobie shimmy in response.

  “The clasp isn’t too bad,” I tell him, reaching my arms around his neck. “Here, let me show you.”

  Whoopsie.

  This was a fantastically stupid idea. He smells like orange citrus and honey, and I want to bite him. I skipped breakfast this morning, and he’s looking awful good to eat right now.

  His breath hitches when my fingers grasp the clasp at the nape of his neck. The movement has closed the proximity of our bodies, thickening the air in the small space that’s left between us. I do my best to avoid grazing that rising tent in his shorts because that might be too brazen. I think we’re both struggling to control ourselves here. No sense in making it worse.

  Oh, yes, there is.

  Shut up, you demon slut.

  His skin is hot against the pads of my fingertips. I can’t help but wonder how sensational all that heat would feel on my skin, in the most sensitive of places. I can’t believe I’m even standing this close to him, let alone touching him.

  But for perhaps the first time in my entire life, that annoying voice of reason in the back of my head—the one that likes to pump the brakes when all I want to do is go fast—isn’t making herself known. She should have spoken up in her grating, nasally voice that sounds suspiciously like my mother’s a long freaking time ago.

  Oh, God.

  Did the demon slut murder her?

  R.I.P. Miss Goodie-Two-Shoes, Slut-sheeba snickers with satisfaction.

  “You just have to use two fingers on the fastening and twist,” I whisper without meaning to whisper.

  His breaths are coming faster now, while my heart starts pounding a staccato rhythm inside my heaving chest. Before I realize his intention, he angles his body toward mine and brushes his erection against my center. My fingers fumble their task as I feel my eyelids droop with desire.

  Sweet baby Jesus.

  He just rubbed his dick right over me.

  And it feels so. Damn. Good.

  “Two fingers, you say?” His lustful gaze is searing a hole right through me.

  I think I nod, but I’m not sure.

  “And…twist?”

  I gasp when he drags his hardness across my mons again, adding more pressure this time.

  Brows slamming together, I roll my lips inward, fighting the urge to moan because that would just be plain embarrassing. Although, this already is embarrassing. I really am a dog in heat, rubbing up on him like my demon slut has suddenly found herself a stripper pole.

  It’s the worst possible time for a conversation with my mother to play on a reel inside my mind. But my current “inappropriate” behavior inadvertently sparks exactly that.

  “Honestly, Harper, anyone knows how to post pictures to social media these days. You have no idea how eager people are to get a shot of you behaving indecently in public.”

  “Jesus, Mother, I’m not a celebrity.”

  “As my daughter, you might as well be in this city. And I will not have you turn our family into Charleston’s version of tabloid fodder, all because you feel like toeing the line between tastelessly classy and conservatively trashy.”

  To this day, I still regret not snapping back at her with a clever retort. Something that would have really stuck it to her. But that’s my friends Quinn’s and Gretchen’s department, not mine. Besides, I’d been too shocked at the time that my mother had just called me trashy to make my brain work at all.

  All because I’d worn cheeky bikini bottoms to the beach.

  She’ll probably have an aneurysm if I ever flash my ass around in a thong bikini.

  “Is that how it goes?” West whispers, pulling me out of my unpleasant, and unbidden, memories. “Two fingers with a twist?”

  The moist heat of his breath caresses my jaw, making my eyes nearly roll back in my head.

  “Yes.”

  I suspect that if he didn’t have all the cumbersome, gaudy necklaces weighing down his arms and jangling with every move he makes, his hands would already be molded to my waist, pulling me closer to him. Hell, we might as well be making out at this point. My arms are wrapped around his neck, his head is bent toward mine, mere inches separate our mouths.

  “You still Pleased Harper? Or do you need to be pleased, H
arper?”

  Lord, save me.

  I swear, the demon slut starts twerking at his words.

  But something snaps me out of the spell. Whether it’s the resurrection of the sensible, nasally voice, or just some much-needed common sense, I tamp down the overwhelming need bubbling up inside me and finish unfastening the necklace’s clasp.

  I retreat from his body and, in a business-like manner, replace the necklace on the booth’s table. The absence of all that potent masculinity makes me feel empty. The distance between us somehow feels wrong.

  Refusing to meet his eyes, I point at one of the necklaces on his opposite arm. “Go with that one. If she’s into the boho look, she’ll like it best.”

  “You didn’t test it against my eyes.”

  I’m taken aback at how reproachful his voice comes out. As if he disapproves of me breaking our connection. Almost admonishing me for regaining my sensibility.

  “Trust me, you’ll be the hero brother if you get her that one.”

  I almost wince at how husky my voice sounds. Where’s that monotone, cold-as-ice demeanor I learned from Mother? The infallible, regal exterior she taught me to pull over myself like a cloak when out in society?

  You left it hanging up at home next to your raincoat. Like you do every day you don’t have to see her.

  “Can’t argue with that,” West says, straightening his posture. Like he, too, is fighting to regain his senses.

  I already regret throwing cold water over us, but it had to be done. I’m behaving completely impulsively, getting swept up in physical attraction. Something I’m usually impervious to. What if one of my mother’s nosy little lackeys happened to walk by and see us nearly dry-humping out in the open?

  My own mother would crucify me.

  I push my hair out of my face, a nervous habit I’ve had since middle school. “Glad I could be of help. It’s not every day I get to save someone’s life.”

  His mouth tugs upward even as conflict grows on his face. “Yeah, I definitely owe you one.”

  I nod. “I hope your sister has a good birthday.”

  Not wanting this to turn awkward, I start to wheel around and walk away.

  “Have dinner with me.”

  I’m halfway turned, and for some reason, I stay like that. I hear the hopefulness in his voice, and I don’t want to see it on his face. Because then I won’t be able to turn him down.

  Wait, why the hell would I turn him down?

  Keeping myself in profile, I remind him, “You said you had that family dinner tonight. For her birthday.”

  “After that,” he grates out. “I could take you to dinner after. Or drinks. Or whatever the hell you want. Just—”

  I glance back at him when he cuts himself off because I can’t not. His words have turned desperate, almost pleading. And his expression is no different.

  “Say yes,” he implores. “Let me take you out, Harper.”

  There’s an unspoken please there. His eyes might as well be begging.

  I should probably go ahead and mention that I’m one of those maybe next time-ers. I’m the person who usually shies away from spontaneity. The one who, if something is too off-the-cuff or a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants type of deal, still waits for the plane to come to a complete stop before unbuckling my seatbelt.

  West drops all the necklaces from his arms onto the table, a loud clanging sound reverberating in the air around us. Unconcerned about the mangle of knots he just created in all those chains, he faces me full-on with the most intent expression I’ve ever seen on a person’s face.

  “This can’t be the last time I ever see you,” he says, his voice raw, like he just ate a mouthful of gravel. “I think I need…more.”

  I know exactly what he means.

  I’ve literally only known this guy for barely ten minutes, but I can’t imagine never seeing him again. Never speaking to him, never hearing that rough timbre. Never smelling that orange-honey citrus again.

  Any minute now, I expect the Mad Hatter to jump out from behind a wall and cackle at me. I obviously took the Blue Pill this morning.

  “Okay.”

  His eyes light up, a smile breaking free. “Okay.”

  We’re feverishly making out eight hours later.

  By the next day, we’re officially dating.

  Two weeks after that, we decide to move in together.

  Days later, we sign a six-month lease on a house we fall head-over-heels in love with.

  Three days before we’re scheduled to move in, we have a blowup fight.

  Hours after that, we’re breaking up.

  And now…we’re living together.

  Yep. For the next six months, I have to live with my ex-boyfriend who I’ve known for a whopping five whole weeks.

  Obviously, I didn’t wait for the plane to come to a complete stop this time. I threw off my seatbelt and jumped head-first out of that plane in the middle of the flight. Without a parachute.

  I blame it all on Slut-sheeba.

  That bitch dragged me straight to hell.

  June

  “Ah, Jesus! What in the name of Christ!”

  A satisfied smile spreads over my mouth at the shouted expletives coming from the kitchen. I brace myself for the inevitable confrontation to follow as West’s heavy footsteps stomp down the hallway toward my bedroom.

  Following rule number five—always knock on my damn door and wait for the all-clear before entering—he pounds his fist against the wood. But he doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s shoving his way through in a furious tornado of hot, angry man. These showdowns having become a daily occurrence around this house, it’s nothing I’m not prepared for.

  “Putting fucking gin in the milk carton?” West fumes. “Seriously? That’s malicious even for you, princess.”

  It’s eight o’clock in the morning, so yeah, that one had to hurt.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean back against my bed’s headboard. “You broke rule number one by not only using the milk I bought, but also by drinking straight from the carton.” I shrug. “You break my rules, you pay the consequences.”

  Rule number one: My groceries are my groceries. Buy your own, and keep your damn mitts off of mine. How hard is that?

  The consequence I chose for that particular transgression was to pour West’s worst enemy—the bane of his existence, by his own admission—into the milk carton that he continues to put his stupid, sexy mouth all over.

  My fucking milk.

  And damned if I don’t smell his aftershave on it after every sip he takes directly from the source.

  Shedding some of the ire he stormed in here with, he smirks. “Afraid of my cooties, princess? You didn’t seem to mind every time your tongue was in my mouth. And in case you need a refresher, it’s been in there a lot.”

  I grind my molars together.

  If he’s going to constantly throw that in my face—all the times we’ve kissed, groped, seen each other naked, and had the best sex of my life—then the next five and a half months are going to be even more painful than I predict they’ll be.

  It’s still surreal that this is even happening.

  I’m living with my ex.

  Our landlord wouldn’t allow subletting, and neither of us can afford to pay rent at two different places. We’d already paid our first and last month’s rent, as well as a sizeable deposit, before we ever broke up. And neither of us are in a position where we can just let money like that go to waste.

  There was literally no escape.

  Breathing deeply through my nose, I scorch him with my fiery glare. “In case you haven’t noticed, flyboy, those times are long gone.” We haven’t so much as brushed fingertips ever since we called it quits almost three weeks ago. “And don’t act like you didn’t love all the places on me your tongue traveled.”

  “Don’t act like you don’t miss it being there.”

  No flashbacks.

  NO. FLASHBACKS.

  I barrel past that a
ccusation and return to the reason he’s in my room. “If you don’t want to suffer through more forms of punishment, then I suggest you stop breaking rule number two.”

  Rule number two: don’t call me ‘princess.’

  He adopted the annoying moniker right after the breakup, for reasons I have yet to understand. But he always says it in a snide, condescending tone, inevitably making me hate it.

  Which prompted me to assign him a new nickname, too. Being a helicopter pilot—yes, that’s for real—I thought “flyboy” seemed appropriate. The fact that he has to be in one of the sexiest professions known to man is proof that the universe obviously has it out for me. It was supposed to help put some distance between us. By not using each other’s real names, things could never get too personal. Right?

  Wrong.

  If anything, my nickname for him has only made things worse. It’s become a frequent reminder of how he makes a living by expertly handling a massively powerful machine on a daily basis. Not that I would know. He’s never taken me up in the helicopter he flies for quick tours around Charleston every day. I just assume he’s good at it.

  You know, since he’s standing here baring his teeth at me and not buried six feet under and all.

  “Do you prefer Lady of the Manor? Or Queen Harper I? I mean, you are society royalty, aren’t you? It has to be something pompous like that.”

  I want to resent his words.

  But I can’t when they’re the truth.

  At least, my mother is royalty in this town. She’s been grooming me my entire life to follow the same path she did—become the most popular Charleston debutante as a teenager, insert yourself into the upper crust of mainstream society as a young adult, then rise to the top of the social strata and maintain your position there for the rest of your life.

  Again, I breeze past his cutting remarks. “While we’re on the subject, you also broke rule number three.”

  Rule number three: clean up after your damn self.

  His cocky smile comes back with a vengeance as he leans against the doorframe. “What? You didn’t like toweling off with my underwear in the shower yesterday?”

  Yep, that happened.

  He knowingly washed all the bathroom towels at once, leaving a single pair of his boxer briefs hanging on the rack for me to dry off with. And dammit to hell, all I could think about—and picture—as I reluctantly patted myself dry with the, thankfully clean, underwear was him giving me a private striptease in that bathroom. Shucking those form-fitting briefs down his toned legs, revealing the jutting hardness of his—