Expecting the man in question to come storming out onto the deck, she practiced her widest smile as her house came into view. Since the sun decided to shine this afternoon, he’d get a good view of her crimson lipstick-ed grin and cheery wave as she parked. Her smile slipped a notch. The upcoming parking bit caused her shoulder muscles to knot together. She swiped a sweaty palm down her red capri pants, which looked adorable with her cherry-red and white striped gumboots. She’d been wise enough to choose sensible footwear for Phase 1 of her plan.
Unfortunately, as she turned in to park beside his SUV, Glen wasn’t on-board with the plan. Rock music blared out of the open slider doors—the kind with screeching guitars and rhythm usually accompanied by long-haired dudes bobbing their heads like their necks were on springs.
Sav leaned forward and peered into her wing mirror.
Okay. I can do this. One perfectly executed maneuver, coming right up. She slotted the shifter into reverse and gave it a little gas, turning the wheel to the left. More creaks and groans. She jabbed her foot on the brake then coasted forward to try again. Probably just as well Glen wasn’t witnessing her first attempt. Second attempt, she hauled the wheel in the opposite direction and eureka! Success.
She flicked a glance at the opposite wing mirror as the car trundled slowly backward. Her mouth flew open a second before her gumboot slammed down on the brake. The car shuddered, a cacophony of creaks, groans and metallic squeaks erupting behind her.
Glen stood fists-on-hips in the center of the grassy area, only a few feet away from where she’d nearly backed over him. She buzzed down the window, her stomach looping into little knots as all six-foot-something of scowling male got bigger and bigger in her wing mirror.
He stopped by her open window, giving her an up-close and personal view of his leather belt and low-slung blue jeans, before he wrenched open her door.
Blue eyes flashing fire, Glen jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and growled, “What in God’s name is that?”
Savannah hauled on the parking brake and unclipped her safety belt.
“That,” she said, shoving one palm against his broad chest to push him out the way. “Is Daisy.”
The warm, hard muscle underneath the thin cotton of his tee shirt had her jerking her hand back. She covered the reaction by tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.
He didn’t move, continuing to glower. “Daisy? You named a butt-ugly orange caravan Daisy?”
“No, the guy I bought her from named her Daisy. And don’t be rude; she’s a classic piece of Kiwi history.”
Glen’s jaw clenched hard enough to crack walnuts. She’d bet ten bucks that if the rock music wasn’t so damn loud, she’d hear his molars grinding.
She swung her rubber-booted feet out of the car, but he still hadn’t moved. Meaning she was almost nose-to-nipple with him. It was quite a nice nipple, too, outlined under his tee shirt like it was, but if the man didn’t back up in the next thirty seconds, she would pincer it as if her fingers were long-nosed pliers and twist.
“Would you mind, terribly much, to move out of the way?”
His nostrils flared once and he stepped aside.
“Thank you,” she said, extra sweetly, and climbed out.
He stalked back to the house, disappearing through the front door. Moments later, the rock music cut off, and he returned, his brow smooth and his lips relaxed into a neutral line. Lawyer face on, she surmised. Well, he was playing with the big league when it came to masking emotions.
“What are you planning to do with that caravan?”
He could’ve been asking about the weather, except for a tell-tale twitch under his right eye.
She pointed to the large clearing of flat grass at the back of the house, surrounded by native bush that almost—but not quite—hid the old barn from the main house. “See that spot over there by the big old gum tree? Or do you need your glasses?”
“I only use the glasses for work. I can see the spot just fine.”
“Good. Because that’s where Daisy and I will be staying for the next five weeks.”
The air crackled between them. If she touched one of his arms, now folded across his chest, would she get a zap the way she sometimes did touching the car door?
But instead of zapping her, he tilted his head. “I don’t think so.”
Sav ran her tongue around her top teeth to check none of her Saucy Red lipstick stained them, then pulled her lips back in a wide smile. “You misunderstand me. I’m not asking your permission; I’m telling you what’s going to happen. You rented my house, but I own the thirty acres surrounding it. And since Daisy will be parked beyond the required distance of ten feet from the house, I’m not breaking any laws.”
His eye twitched again.
“You really think you’ll last five weeks in that tin can?” His voice was frostier than a yummy watermelon Margarita. The man had icy control now he’d gotten over his initial surprise, that was for sure.
“Daisy’s got everything I need to be comfortable.”
“Why are you doing this? Are you really that desperate to get your own way?”
Her spine stiffened. “Let’s get one thing straight; just because you’re buddies with Nate, doesn’t mean you know me. So go ahead and judge—suits like you always do.”
“Suits like me?” His lip curled in one corner.
“Wearing jeans, stubble, and trendy spectacles doesn’t make you a laid-back bohemian writer”—but she had to admit the jeans and stubble and even the damn glasses did make him a little bit smoking hot—“because you can’t help but show a typical Suit’s narrow-minded arrogance every time you speak.”
One eyebrow lifted above his cool-blue eye. She hadn’t meant to go on the offensive. Just something about his smug, hipshot stance made her control slip.
He didn’t appear offended at her outburst. In fact, he showed her a row of straight, white teeth. Some would call it a smile. She knew better—it was a challenge.
“Three weeks, diva,” he said. “Three weeks before you cave without your hairdryer, wi-fi and bubble baths.”
Tiny hairs rose erect on her nape at the sarcastic nickname. Her father used to call her his little diva or his little star. Up until that night ten years ago when she’d sobbed down the phone line to London, ordering him to never, ever call her that again.
“You surprise me. I thought you’d only give me a week.”
“I don’t underestimate your pig-headed determination. You didn’t get where you are in your career by being a quitter, but even stubbornness has its limit. Enjoy your cramped quarters.” He walked backward a few steps then paused. “The house is off-limits to you, by the way—and that includes my front deck for cell phone coverage. If you want to make a call, I suggest you climb a tree.”
Savannah turned away before she gave in to the temptation to hurl something at his retreating back. She returned to her car and started it. She’d show him. Ramming into reverse, she checked her mirrors and continued to ease Daisy into position. The twenty-foot caravan bumped gently over the grass and settled on its four tires once she’d coaxed it into the right spot. Trees and greenery were on the caravan’s rear side, the front door almost directly opposite her house’s office on the other. Perfect. She resisted a fist pump as she killed the engine and climbed out, sneaking a glance at the deck.
Glen slouched in an Adirondack chair, positioned to face her. As if he was waiting for a show. Beer in one hand—and what was that between his long, hard thighs? Crinkling noises drifted across to her, followed by loud crunches. Her eyes narrowed. Saliva pooled. More crunches and the hiss-pop of a bottle being opened. Beer and potato chips. The cruel pig. Now that was all she could think about.
Tipping her nose in the air, she walked behind Daisy and got to work winding down the first jack, remembering the salesman’s step-by-step demonstration of setting up the caravan.
“We’ve got this, Daisy old girl,” she said, after successfully deploying three of the f
our jacks. “And we’ll hope that every last one of those chips goes straight to his behind.”
Though so far, they obviously hadn’t. For a pencil-pushing suit, he was in pretty good shape.
She squished through churned up grass and mud to the fourth jack, positioned on the far corner facing Glen. Her neck heated, aware of his scrutiny from across the lawn. One more jack to go. Something tickled in the corner of her mind but was blown away by a deep voice calling out, “Having fun yet?”
Ignoring him, Sav grabbed the final jack and turned the handle. It didn’t budge. She planted her gumboots farther apart and tried again. Nothing.
“You’ve got no leverage at that angle. Try kneeling.”
Sav looked at the mud bubbling up between blades of grass. Then at her spotless capris. Thought she’d squirm at the idea of getting dirty, did he? She turned and flashed him a ninety-watt smile. “Thanks. I so wouldn’t have thought of that.”
She dropped to her knees, cool wetness soaking through the thin fabric. A point was made when she didn’t glance at the stains forming. Glaring at the jack the way she’d glare at a particularly tricky line of dialogue her tongue kept stumbling over, Sav bore down. With a horrendous creak, it gave way, and she wound it down triumphantly, sliding a short length of timber under the jack so it wouldn’t sink into the mud—again following the salesman’s instructions.
“Good job,” Glen called out, followed by more crinkly chip-packet sounds.
“Kiss my ass,” she muttered under her breath, hoping he’d choke. But she turned and gave him a cheery thumbs-up.
Sav got to her feet and strolled to the car, definitely not looking at the wetness spread from knee to ankle and seeping under her gumboots. First thing she’d do after parking her car was to try out the shower in Daisy’s dinky little bathroom.
She climbed in and started the engine. Glen might get his kicks from watching her grovel in the mud, but she’d have the last laugh by setting up her caravan without some poor sap doing it for her. She gave the car some gas and let it pull forward.
The car juddered, and Sav’s gaze shot automatically to the rear view mirror. Daisy bumped right along behind—she’d forgotten to unhitch the caravan from the tow-hitch before driving away!
Swearing in a very un-lady like fashion, she slammed on the brake. Again. Daisy bucked and rocked and screeched. Even before Sav got the car in park, gusts of laughter from her impromptu audience drifted across from the deck. A fever-hot flush stung her cheeks, and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She blinked furiously. Savannah Payne did not cry—not unless someone bankrolled her to do so.
Sav flung open the car door, narrowly missing Glen’s leg. He ducked out of the way then leaned down, eyes still crinkled with humor. At least he’d finished laughing his butt off at her expense.
“Need a hand?”
Not unless he chopped it off and let her use it to slap his face. But she hadn’t been nominated for a Golden Globe for nothing. Her lips strained in the corners from smiling so brightly.
“Nope.” She climbed out of the car and brushed sweaty palms down her legs. “My bad. I should’ve written down the instructions.”
Stalking to the end of the car, she let out a strangled groan at the deep grooves churned through grass and mud caused by the dragging jacks. A throat cleared at her side, and the faint odor of beer and stronger scent of male drifted into her nose.
“You sure I can’t do anything?” Glen said.
If she hadn’t been around the block more than a few damn times, she might’ve believed there was a hint of concern in his deep voice.
She met his steady gaze. “You could get out of my house.”
He raised his hands and took a few steps back. “Knock yourself out then, diva.”
This time her tongue didn’t receive her brain’s stay polite message. “Bite me.”
She didn’t glance at him as he gave one last chuckle and returned to his chair. She’d worked in front of tougher audiences, faced tougher critics than Glen Cooper. If he wanted to watch, she’d give him a show.
Twenty minutes later, Sav had Daisy parked in position with all her jacks down, uncoupled from the car, and had manhandled her luggage inside. She glanced surreptitiously toward the deck where Glen had been watching her, but he was no longer there. Pity, she would’ve enjoyed shutting the door in his face. She stepped out of her mud-encrusted gumboots and into her new home.
Glen was right about one thing, though.
She wouldn’t last three weeks without all her little luxuries—because he’d be gone long before then. Day one of her campaign to get the man out of her house had begun.
***
After fighting with Daisy’s frustratingly tiny shower, Sav changed into jeans and a snuggly sweater and curled up on her bed with a copy of THE SCRIPT. The script was thought of in capital letters because it was just, that, important.
Words blurred as a hot wash seared her cheeks. Being called into Julius Santiago’s trailer two weeks into filming certainly made the top three on her mental list of Savannah’s Most Humiliating Moments. Her eyes stung. She shook her head. No. She hadn’t cried then, and she wasn’t crying now. She had a job to do—two jobs. One. Remove Glen from her house so she could focus a hundred percent on job two. Job two required losing twenty pounds by the time she returned to Hollywood and then nailing the audition for the role of twenty-one-year-old Charlotte Malone.
Focus.
Savannah hunched over the script and lost herself in Charlotte’s syrupy-sweet life filled with little oopsies touchingly shared with her two younger siblings.
Three hours later, her stomach rumbled like distant thunder and she put the pages aside. The afternoon light spilling inside the small windows had dulled now the sun had slipped behind the hills, but wary of draining the caravan’s battery, Sav opted for a break.
She peeked through the red and white floral curtains hanging in Daisy’s kitchen-dining area. Lights blazed in her house, whitewashing bright patches on the deck outside.
Time to implement her first covert operation. Operation Know Thy Enemy.
To figure out the best way to drive Glen away, she must discover the right kind of ammunition. Unfortunately this meant engaging with the enemy—since Nate had refused to dish on his old buddy, declaring himself “Switzerland.”
Switzerland, my butt.
Savannah opened Daisy’s door and donned her gumboots. Tomorrow she’d figure out how to get the caravan’s awning up and find something to spread over the grass so she’d have somewhere to store her muddy boots. She clomped across the lawn and onto the deck, wrinkling her nose at the muddy footprints she’d created on the newly stained wood. She slipped off the boots and left them neatly to one side.
So what did she know about her obnoxious tenant? One, he was a lawyer. Two, he was writing a book of some kind. Three, he had the audacity to call her stubborn. And four—Sav walked around the house corner to a shirtless Glen tapping away on his laptop at the outdoor table—he looked really, really good without a shirt.
Her legs wobbled and stopped working. Just stopped, like a giant hand had burrowed inside her body and yanked out all her bones. How the heck did a lawyer get a body like that?
Glen’s long fingers continued to dance over the keyboard, causing little quakes of movement along his corded forearm. He didn’t have the beefy build of a gym rat and many of the actors she’d worked with who worshiped at the Throne of the Leg Press.
But, oh-my-goodness…still.
He had well-defined pecs and abs beneath tanned skin with some kind of black sword tattooed over his ribcage, the point of the weapon disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts. The suit had a tattoo? Now that was something to add to her growing list of observations.
She cleared her throat and he jumped. Actually jumped a good half inch off the chair. The startled “O” of his mouth closed after a split second, replaced with a grim, flat line when his gaze landed on her.
“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Were you aiming to give me a heart attack?” He pushed out of his chair and stood, rewarding her with the full, undiluted impact of shirt-free hotness.
Sav pointed at her feet, covered in fluffy pink socks. “I took my boots off before I tracked mud all over the new decking.”
“Thoughtful, but you should wear a bell.” He waved a dismissing hand. “I probably wouldn’t have heard you anyway, I was working.”
“Again, sorry.”
She gave him a wide berth and walked to the edge of the deck. In the distance, the last light glistened on the Tasman Sea and the crescent curve of beach. From this height and distance away from the coast, Bounty Bay’s houses were small dots, some with drifts of smoke spiraling up from their chimneys.
When she turned back, his gaze probed her, the question of what the hell do you want? written in every tense line of his big body.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked.
He looked down, and she tracked the movement to his chest. “Nope. Temperature’s pretty mild out.”
Must, stop, looking, at, the, hotness. Her gaze jumped around until it landed on his open laptop.
“So…you’re writing.”
Oh, great start. The scene she’d run through her head before coming over wasn’t going to plan. In her version, she’d say something charming and a little quirky to catch him off guard. Then he’d laugh, and chill out enough to have a grown up conversation. Which would in turn reveal some information she could use as leverage.
Except quite a few brain cells seemed to have popped like soap bubbles when she’d turned the corner.
“Yep.” His weight shifted as he folded his arms across his chest.
Sav’s eyes, completely ignoring the must-stop-looking instruction, flicked from the laptop to the raised ridge of hip muscles above his shorts. Muscles that made smart girls stupid, they said. Whoever “they” were, she had to concede they were correct.
“Writing a book.”
“Uh huh.” Said with a pointed glance back at his laptop.
Know Your Heart: A New Zealand Enemies to Lovers Romance (Far North Series Book 2) Page 3
