The Six Month Lease (Southern Hearts Club Book 2)

by Melanie Munton

  He tips his head back and howls with laughter. “This ought to be fantastic.”

  I bite my tongue so hard this time I literally draw blood. “Trust me, I wouldn’t bother asking if I wasn’t trying to avoid another annoying lecture from my mother.”

  His eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “I’m on the edge of my seat here, princess.”

  Squaring my shoulders, I pray I’m not about to dig my own grave. “I have to go to a family dinner in two weeks at my mother’s house. It’s an anniversary party for her and my stepfather. I completely forgot about it until she texted me earlier and asked if I was still coming.”

  He shrugs when I don’t continue. “Okay. Good for you. How does this affect me?”

  I shift my weight between feet, suddenly nervous. “It was planned a long time ago, when you and I were still dating, and I told her I’d be bringing you.”

  Confusion mars his features. “So? She knows we’re broken up, right? She won’t expect me there now.”

  He’s not getting it.

  “The thing is… She doesn’t know we broke up. I never told her.”

  His eyes crinkle in the corners. “Why not?”

  Shoving my hair off my face, I sigh in frustration. “She went ballistic when I told her we were moving in together in the first place. Lectured me until she was blue in the face about how we didn’t know each other well enough to get so serious so fast. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of telling her that we broke up right after signing our lease.”

  He averts his gaze and rolls his shoulders back, as if hearing that makes him uncomfortable. Or just plain angry. Can’t always tell with him.

  “So, she thinks we’re still dating? And living together?”

  I nod.

  “And you need me to go to this dinner with you to save face in front of her?”

  “Pretty much.”

  He slides his tongue over his teeth, unsuccessfully hiding his smile.

  “Hey, I’m not happy about this either,” I say haughtily. “Asking you for help isn’t something I relish doing. But if you do this one thing for me, I swear I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.”

  With a vicious pull, his gaze slingshots back to mine. “I’ve never said you can’t ask me for help. But you can’t blame me for finding the humor in this situation.”

  I roll my eyes. “All right. What is this going to cost me?”

  He pushes off the door frame, rising to his full height. His body vibrates with fury, his face an expression of undiluted rage. “Excuse me? You think I want money from you?”

  My head rears back. “Jesus. Cool it, flyboy. I’m talking about making a deal. If you do this solid for me, I’ll do something for you in exchange.”

  That simmering temper slowly ebbs from his features, allowing for a sensual grin to stretch across his tantalizing mouth.

  I throw a hand up. “Something completely platonic. Something a friend would do for another friend.”

  “Is that what we are, princess? Friends?”

  When I can’t maintain eye contact, I start studying his chin like it holds the secrets of the universe. “What we are might be too complicated for even the English language to describe.” I clear my throat. “So, what’s it going to be?”

  He’s silent for way too long.

  It’s damn annoying. I know he’s doing it on purpose, trying to throw me off, intimidate me. He knows I hate awkward silences. I’ll start babbling incoherently before I’ll sit in silence for longer than ten seconds. But because I know that’s exactly what he’s aiming for here, I wait it out.

  “Okay, fine,” he finally agrees, taking a step toward me. “I’ll come with you. And I assume we’re supposed to act like we’re still a couple? I’m supposed to be all boyfriendly and what not?”

  I retreat a step, then stop myself. I’m not going to look like a spooked animal, even if that’s exactly how I feel inside.

  “I mean, we don’t need to be over-the-top or anything. But we should probably at least make an attempt to get along while we’re there.”

  He chuckles. “Oh, I think we can surely handle that. After all, we used to get along so well, didn’t we?”

  All right, he wins. I’m spooked. He’s a hunter, I’m Bambi, and he’s got me in his sights.

  When he bends his head toward mine, I take another step back and wind up flush against my bedroom door. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a distinct bulge beneath his towel now.

  Wouldn’t it be so glorious to rip that towel away and let that bad boy spring forth?

  Oh, perfect.

  Slut-sheeba has apparently awoken from her hibernation just in time.

  “What do you want in return, then?” I ask, almost cringing at how silky my voice comes out.

  “I have to pick just one thing?” He tsks his tongue. “How to narrow it down.”

  I’ve never possessed an overflowing fountain of steely resolve from which to drink, like Gretchen seems to. But I at least need to pretend I do in this moment.

  “It’s not that hard to choo—”

  “Oh, it’s plenty hard, princess.”

  The towel-covered bulge brushes against my belly.

  I try.

  I really do.

  But a tiny little whimper still escapes.

  I have a brief glimpse of him licking his lips before I revert my attention to the wall behind him. My hand blindly searches behind my back for the doorknob.

  “You have two weeks to think about it,” I croak. “Let me know when you decide.”

  He hums in the back of this throat. “I don’t know. I kind of like the thought of you owing me something.”

  Oh, hell.

  This close, his orange-honey scent is invading my senses. His hair is still damp, the front section doing a little spikey thing in front, creating a stupidly sexy look. It makes him appear all suave and rakish. Yet another occasion when his aviator sunglasses and a leather jacket would have come in handy.

  “The offer is off the table after that dinner,” I say resolutely. “You have until then to decide. Otherwise, we’ll be even, and I won’t owe you anything.”

  Without acknowledging my words, his hand reaches for my hip, his pupils dilating. But before he can make contact, I twist the doorknob and quickly slip inside my room, closing the door in his hungry face.

  Coward.

  No, that was smart.

  My forehead presses against the wood, my eyes sliding shut.

  And don’t ask me how or why, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s mirroring my exact position on the other side of the door. I sense his presence still lingering there.

  Slut-sheeba cackles hysterically from her slut-cave.

  Gulp.

  Did I just make a deal with the devil?

  August

  When I shuffle through our front door after another long day at work a week later, West is sitting on the couch, beer in hand, watching something on Netflix. He glances up at me, his expression unreadable.

  “Hey.” He gives me the quickest once-over before returning his attention to the TV.

  “Hey.”

  I don’t waste time by going to my room to change out of my uncomfortable work clothes. I head straight for the kitchen because getting myself a drink is a more pressing issue at the moment than finally acknowledging the way this stupid pencil skirt is chafing my waist or how the itchy material of my blouse is leaving a rash on my collarbone.

  “You want a sangria?”

  I slant a look around the cabinets when he takes a moment to answer.

  He holds up his beer. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”

  Huh, politeness. That’s new for us.

  I get busy chopping up an apple and an orange. Grabbing the Spanish red wine I have waiting on the rack and the brandy I have stashed away in our pantry, I add the ingredients into a small glass pitcher, along with a little bit of brown sugar. After a healthy amount of stirring, I pour some into a wine glass and take th
e longest, most refreshing sip of my life.

  “God, that hits the spot.”

  A low chuckle comes from the couch.

  Red wine always has a way of relaxing my muscles, and I desperately need it to work out my tension right now. But I also don’t want to lock myself away in my bedroom for the thousandth time. Those four walls get a little depressing night after night, like I’ve created my own personal prison cell. And all because I’m trying to avoid West. Lounging back on the couch, putting my feet up, and watching some mindless television sounds so much better than sitting on my bed, staring at the wall or trolling through social media.

  To hell with it.

  Surely, we can remain civil while keeping our hands off each other for an hour or so.

  I take a seat in the arm chair, knowing there’s no way on God’s green earth we’ll behave ourselves if I join him on the couch. Cracking my neck from side to side, I prop my feet up on the coffee table and allow the red wine to begin its work.

  “Where did you go last night?” he asks in a noticeably stern voice. Is that jealousy I hear? “I heard you leave just after three.”

  That’s really none of his business. But in the interest of not stirring the stress pot right now, I throw him a bone. He’ll probably regret asking anyway.

  “To Shae’s. She sort of had an…emergency.”

  Actually, what she had was a nightmare. It’s the same recurring one she’s had since she was eleven years old. Ever since she was abused by her thirty-seven-year-old neighbor. It happens at least once a month. She’ll wake up in the middle of the night, already in the throes of an anxiety attack, and immediately call me to come over and calm her down.

  Which I do. Always.

  I can’t imagine what she went through back then. As a confused child who really didn’t have anyone to look out for her or protect her, the least I can do is be there for her now and remind her that she’s not alone. That the monster in her nightmares isn’t coming back to get her.

  I comforted her last night until she fell back asleep sometime around six-thirty this morning. Not that I was able to go back to sleep myself. I had to rush around to get to work on time, which means I had less than four total hours of sleep. After another grueling day at the Foundation on top of that, I’m almost too exhausted to lift my glass for a drink.

  Ha! I said almost. I’ll never be that tired.

  “Oh,” West murmurs, his shoulders bunching. “Is she—” He squints at the TV, tapping his finger against his beer bottle. “Is everything okay?”

  Sensing his desire to avoid the topic of Shae altogether, I don’t go into details. I don’t really want to rehash the whole thing anyway. My brain is too fuzzy. Besides, that’s Shae’s business. I would never discuss her private, very personal issues with anyone else.

  “Yeah, she’s fine now.”

  He nods.

  It’s obvious she’s still a sore spot between us. But I can at least appreciate the fact that he’s not saying whatever is on his mind. Unlike the night we broke up, he appears to be reining in his frustrations with all things Shae.

  Huh. Also new for us.

  Burrowing myself further into the cushiony chair, I shift my attention to the TV. I recognize the show he’s watching—some new adventure/drama about searching for lost treasure off the coast of North Carolina or something.

  “I didn’t know you were into this kind of thing,” I comment, nonchalantly sipping on my sangria.

  He does the same with his beer, keeping his gaze affixed to the screen in front of him. It seems we’re both choosing to ignore the fact that this is the most congenial we’ve been to each other since we broke up.

  “Why is that?”

  I shrug. “I’ve never seen you watch anything else on TV but a ballgame.”

  He snorts. “Well, I guess you wouldn’t since you never come out of your room for anything other than your Doritos and to go to the bathroom.”

  The way he says that isn’t necessarily snide, but it could be interpreted that way. If I were inclined enough, I could respond with some snappy retort, thereby shoving that wedge between us in even further.

  But I’m not so inclined.

  I’m too worn out from all the insufferable sparring. Tonight, I just want to take the path of least resistance and relax.

  “You’re saying I didn’t learn absolutely everything about you in the three weeks that we dated?”

  His eyes fly to mine. I can see them assessing my expression, making sure he read my sarcasm accurately. Then he grins. “Not quite. I’m a little more mysterious than that.”

  I tip my head at the screen. “Clearly. You like action/adventure stories about lost treasure. Quite the enigma, flyboy.”

  “I’ve read every Clive Cussler book ever published.”

  “Really?”

  I’m unable to mask my surprise. I didn’t even know he liked to read. How did I not know something so simple as that?

  He nods. “Fantasy/adventure stories about treasure hunting have always been my dad’s thing, and I guess I inherited it from him. I grew up reading the Hardy Boys and Edgar Rice Burroughs books. It was a way for us to bond. Kind of like you watching sports with your dad.”

  My heart warms that he not only remembers that, but that he can relate to it. The relationship I have with my father might be threadbare and solely based on a shared comradery over sports, but it’s better than anything I’ve ever had with my mother. I’ll maintain a death grip on that connection until my dying day.

  Honestly, I really don’t need to learn more about West. I don’t need to discover more likeable qualities of his personality. My emotions are already pinging around erratically, like signals between cell phone towers. You know those scenes in crime drama shows where the investigators are trying to locate a suspect by using cell phone towers to track the person’s phone signal? The signal supposedly pings off all the cell phone towers in the area, allowing the investigators to triangulate the suspect’s relative location.

  That’s how I feel every time I’m around West.

  Like my emotions are all pinging off of different cell phone towers, but I can’t locate the right signal. Can’t pinpoint how I really feel or where I should go from here.

  I’m lost in my thoughts when West’s voice cuts through that swirling vortex of uncertainty. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what is the deal with you and your mom?”

  I frown.

  Talking about my mother is the most effective way to remain unrelaxed.

  “I’m not trying to pry, Harper,” he adds in a gentler tone than I expect. “There are just a lot of blanks you’ve never really filled in when it comes to her.”

  I suppose he does deserve some answers. Especially since I’ve bribed him into attending her anniversary party next week. I’m basically throwing him into the lion’s den with a rope of meat wrapped around his neck.

  “Image and social status are paramount to my mother,” I explain woodenly. “The value of one’s name and placement in the community are above all else in her world. Belonging to the most exclusive clubs, having the right people on her speed dial, sending her children to the most prestigious private schools, and having ultimate power and influence among her peers. Let’s just say that nurturing and protecting her daughters never exactly made it onto her list of top priorities.”

  I catch his wince out of the corner of my eye. “Must have been tough growing up around that. Especially as a kid.”

  It sure wasn’t easy. “Violet and I got used to it. It definitely didn’t help when our parents divorced. At first, I was surprised Mother was okay with being a divorcee. But then I realized the concept of raising two children “on her own” gave the impression that she was a tough, independent woman. Even though a string of nannies were the ones who actually raised us, Mother liked taking the credit for being Supermom. Not to mention, I think she also liked the idea of having multiple husbands. In her eyes, it makes her look more desirable.”

  Cu
rrently on her fifth husband, Mother’s going to give Elizabeth Taylor a run for her money before too long. Which might explain why Violet is currently on her fourth engagement. She’s never once sealed the deal with anyone. I think, like Mother, she likes knowing that so many men are willing to put diamonds on her finger. Needless to say, she and I aren’t super close. Having gone the path of our mother, I use a much less flattering term to describe her these days: sell-out.

  While I… I went the complete opposite direction.

  To be anything but my mother.

  At least, that’s what I’ve told myself. Working at the Foundation isn’t exactly giving Eleanor St. Clair the middle finger, is it? In fact, it’s falling right in line with everything she has planned for my future.

  It’s just temporary, remember?

  “Is that why you’re not pursuing your makeup stuff?” he asks. “Because you’re afraid of disappointing your mom?”

  I can feel his eyes boring into me, but I keep staring down at the orange slices floating on top of the red liquid in my glass. “I’ve told you. That’s just a hobby, not a feasible career path.”

  He’s probably heard Gretchen, Sloane, and Quinn talk more about it than me. I’ve never shared those particular dreams with West. I’m afraid that talking about it will make it harder to accept that they aren’t coming true.

  “Is that you or your mom talking?”

  “Why are you pushing this?”

  He grunts as he shifts around on the couch. “Because I believe in doing whatever makes you happy in life. A lot of kids dream about being pilots one day, but I never grew out of that dream once I got older. So, I made it my reality. You might be telling yourself that living your dream is impossible, Harper, but I promise it’s not.”

  Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have Eleanor St. Clair for a mother.

  I pick at a loose thread on the fabric of the armrest. “Some people are just luckier than others.”

  We fall into silence for several minutes.

  “You know you can talk to me, right?” he eventually says. “I’m still your friend. I still want you to be happy. I mean, if anyone understands what it’s like trying to start a business from nothing, it’s me.”