“Then why are you here?”
Groaning, she walked around me and fell back onto the couch. Her legs spread wide and her arms took up most of the space, and I chuckled remembering how she sat like that anytime she was sent to the principal’s office. I knew because I was usually sitting outside the principal’s office, too.
“It’s a long story involving me and how I screw up just about everything I touch.”
“I was sorry to hear about the passing of your mom.”
I saw the news and the celebrity news magazines. Gossip hounds claimed it was no accident. One idiot even reached out to me and asked if the accident was planned. I told him many things, none of them having to do with Iona or her mom and everything involving a pencil and his asshole.
Iona turned her gaze toward the mantle. “Thank you.”
“What I said earlier about the accident . . . I really didn’t mean it. It was wrong for me to use that moment to hurt you just because you called me Toonces.”
I felt like an asshole. There was something about that nickname that bothered me. Maybe it was because my dad had come up with it.
“I get it. I shouldn’t have made fun of you with name calling. It was childish.”
There was silence.
Her mom was a good person. Once Iona and I had become friends, I spent most of my time at her place. They didn’t have much to eat but whatever Mrs. Dell had, she’d always offered me some.
“I miss her,” I said and meant it. There were times I wished Mrs. Dell was my mom.
“I made a horrible mistake,” she said.
“What?”
“I mean, coming here.” Iona stood and swiped her phone from the table.
“You never said why you had to come here to begin with.” I shrugged and watched as she searched the room, picking up a small bag by the front door. “Maybe I can help you? Get you back to Hollywood?”
The way she stopped searching her bag and stared at me made me wonder if I had made a mistake in offering help.
“I recognize that look. You’re plotting something.” I slowly stood from the couch, worried what she was planning.
Her schemes always backfired.
Her eyes sparkled with nothing but bad plans—I knew that look all too well. “What if we pretend to get married?”
I waited for her to tell me she was joking or that there was more to this plan than marriage. But the longer I stood and watched the beautiful woman with long black hair that shone like a river at midnight, the more it dawned on me she was serious.
“No.”
“Think about it—”
“I said no.” I moved toward the stairs and had no idea why. Maybe if I removed myself as far as I could, the idea would die a horrible death.
I jogged up the creaky wooden steps and heard her footsteps behind me.
“Why are you following me?”
“Why are you running away?”
I turned when I got to the master bedroom, noticing the large bed already made inside.
“Because that idea was the worst and you know why it’s terrible.”
“Yeah, I do.” She glanced at the floor. “I just thought if I convinced Babette, who I’m supposed to meet with tomorrow for lunch, that we were in love—”
“After less than a day?”
Her expression was one of doubt, but she pushed the idea. “Some couples in Hollywood have gotten engaged within minutes of meeting. Complete fact.” She held up her finger as if that made this idea any less ludicrous.
“Did they ever get married?” I folded my arms and waited for more of her absurd facts.
“No, but that’s not the—”
I held up my hand and moved into the bedroom, turning to close the door. Just before I shut it, she said, “Neither will we.”
“Of course, we won’t. You wanna know why? Because I haven’t proposed, you haven’t proposed. That means no one standing in this house will be marrying the other person standing in this house.”
Closing the door, I locked it and sat on the edge of the bed. It was soft, but with some firmness. This was a quality mattress and about the only good thing in the house right now.
There was a beep coming from the hallway, but I ignored it. I wanted to stay in this room forever. The world couldn’t get me in here. No home buying mishaps or unusual rental agreements or seductive actresses who caused my cock to go rogue.
She knocked on the door.
“Go away,” I yelled and then flopped back on the cool, silky lavender bedspread.
Go away and let me live in denial for a bit, surrounded by soft comfy goodness.
“Tyler, there’s a problem.”
“No shit, Iona. Tell me something new.”
For once, she did something she had never done before, even when we were kids—she listened to me. I heard her feet putter down the steps. After a minute, there was a loud slam of the front door.
She actually left. My grin was so wide, it hurt.
With a push, I leaped out of bed. I had my home back. I wondered if locksmiths made emergency house calls on a Saturday. I’d pay the person double if they changed it within the hour.
Opening the door, I skipped with an eager step down the stairs and almost fell. Grabbing the railing, I glanced to the door. Iona stood in front staring.
“You tricked me.”
How could I have fallen for such a simple deception?
With a quick turn of her head, which caused her dark locks to fly through the air, she put a finger up to her lips.
A chill went down my back. Something was off. Her eyes flashed with fear. Did someone want to hurt her?
I stepped off the staircase and whispered, “Is someone out there?”
She nodded and tried to hold me back as I reached for the knob. Whoever was trying to intimidate Iona was going to answer to me and my fist in their face and my foot up their ass.
Opening the door, there were blinding pops of light everywhere. I held up my hand to shield the glare as I waited for my eyes to adjust.
There were more than one. At least five people moved closer and up onto the porch. That’s when I heard them.
“Are you Tyler Ferguson?”
“Is it true that you’re taking I.D. to court over a house?”
“Mr. Ferguson, isn’t it true that you run a puppy mill?”
“Why are you holding I.D. hostage?”
I slammed the door, staring at the glint of the brass handle.
“I’m sorry.” Iona grimaced.
As much as I wanted to stay in this house, I wondered if I would ever be able to leave.
SEVEN
Iona
“Everything is perfect,” Babette said as she raised the plastic-covered diner menu, took a quick glance, and set it down.
“Perfect? I had to sleep with one eye open last night because I was afraid the man in the next room would kill me.”
“The vet won’t murder you.” She flicked her hand at me causing the gold bangles on her arm to clang.
“This is such a mess.” I folded my arms on the table and flopped my head down on top of them. Forgetting I had fake glasses on, I poked my eye. “Ow.” I threw the glasses aside, rubbing at my tearing eye.
“You smeared your mascara.”
I didn’t want to care, but I knew if a photographer took a photo of me, with one eye covered in mascara, the headlines wouldn’t be pleasant.
Grabbing the napkin from the metal napkin dispenser, I rubbed, hoping the makeup would disappear. Of course, it didn’t.
“I think you made it worse.”
Ugh. Story of my life.
I scratched my head and the blond wig flopped to the side. Now I had a black eye and my hair was falling off. Wonderful.
“Here you go, darling. I had some spare wig glue in the back,” a familiar voice said from above as a hand placed a small clear bottle onto the table in front of me.
“Debbie.” I tried to hold back the tears from my one good eye.
<
br /> She looked almost the same—a bit grayer in her curls but her hearty smile always felt like home.
“Iona? My word, you had me fooled. Are you and Tyler up to your old tricks?” She glanced around the room.
“No, Tyler isn’t here. This is Babette, my agent.”
Babette extended a hand and Debbie grasped it with both of hers.
“It’s so wonderful to finally meet Iona’s agent. I’ve heard all the tales about you,” Debbie said.
“What?” Babette said as she took her hand back and stared at me.
“Oh, yes. I read all about the goings-on over in Hollywood. Nothing embarrassing, mind you. But very entertaining. I tell you, if Iona wasn’t such a talented actress, I’d bet she would have become a novelist.”
“Really.” Babette arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow as she gazed at me.
“Who’s hungry?” I asked with a tight voice and immediately raised the menu in front of my face.
Heat crawled up my neck and I wished that a freak lightning storm would explode above my seat. Not much, just one cloud, one bolt. One time where I didn’t have to explain why I did something that wasn’t normal.
My mother had warned me so many times. “Iona, be as pleasant as a flower and as sweet as honey. Then everyone will want to be your friend.”
Instead, I was about as pleasant as a turnip and as sweet as a dill pickle.
“Mmm. You still have apple fritters. That sounds delicious. I’ll take that and a glass of milk, please, Debbie.” I handed the menu over, careful to avoid all eye contact.
“Sure thing, darling. And for you, Babette?”
“A cup of half coffee, half creamer.”
I felt her eyes burn into mine, but I refused to look her way. Instead, I stared at the ceiling and for the first time, I realized this place had ceiling fans.
“I’m funny, huh? I’ve been called a whole lot in my life, I.D., but funny was not one of them.”
“I didn’t only write about you. I also wrote about Cara and some of the actors and actresses I’ve worked with over the years. I was careful to disguise names . . . except for you and Cara. But since you two weren’t famous, I figured you wouldn’t care.”
Wow. That sounded so much better in my head.
I cringed and awaited the firing—and the threat of future lawsuits. Not to mention the total destruction of my life by one of the most powerful people in Hollywood.
“I’m not famous?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t mean at all. You’re famous in the entertainment industry. I meant here.” I pointed at a random guy seated at the counter. “I’m sure he doesn’t know who you are, but he might know me. And, fame isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. I mean, sure, when I was young, I fantasized about being famous. But now that I am, it’s not that great.” I held up the fake hair and crooked glasses as proof.
Babette let out a puff of air as the corner of her mouth curled. That was her laugh, and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or petrified.
“I want to see the emails. The little stories you sent that waitress.”
Shit.
I nodded. “Yes, of course. No problem. But just to clarify, you mean all the emails? Like, even the ones from eleven years ago?”
“Yes.”
The bell over the diner door rang, and I turned to see who would be stopping by. Not that I cared or was waiting for anyone, but to avoid having to look at Babette I had to appear interested.
It’s not that I wrote bad things about her. I may have exaggerated her taste in sexy masseuses a little too much but nothing illegal or inappropriate.
It’s what I said about Tyler that had me concerned. I confided in Debbie because she was like the trusting aunt I never had. I could tell her things I wasn’t comfortable explaining to my mother.
A beautiful woman with long blond hair walked in. I was struck by how stunning she was despite her unusual laughter. She was like Grace Kelly, if Grace Kelly snort-laughed.
When I saw who was coming in with her, chuckling like a fool, my ears started to ring.
I turned around so fast, my wig didn’t have time to catch up.
“Fuck.” I pushed and pulled at the terrible mop on my head.
“Oh look, it’s Dr. Tyler Ferguson. Let’s have him join us,” Babette said and didn’t give me time to respond. I was tangled in a web of cheap blond hair and hoped I’d be free before they came over.
“Dr. Ferguson, just the man I wanted to see.”
Too late.
“How do you even know what he looks like?” I plucked at the ticklish hairs that fluttered over my face.
“It’s called Google, honey. You are the most Internet-illiterate twenty-nine-year-old I ever met. Do you even know what social media means?”
“Hardy har har, I know what social media means.”
I tried to avoid what’s out there. If I didn’t know it existed, then how could it hurt me?
“Hello. You needed to speak . . . with . . . me?” Tyler asked as his smile faded. Concern etched his features as he stared at me.
Babette waved toward my side of the booth. “Please, join us. It’s about the house.” I groaned but scooted over until I was as close to Babette as she would allow.
“That’s very kind of you, but we were going to get a table—”
“Oh my God! Aren’t you I.D.? I have followed you ever since you had the What The Hell vlog. My sister and I thought you were hilarious.”
Combing the mess of hair out of my face, I saw the beautiful blond sit in the booth and scoot closer. Her hair was perfect, pulled back in a thick French braid. I bet hers wasn’t a wig.
I noticed Tyler remained standing.
The rest of yesterday wasn’t fun. The only thing we had to eat were cookies and muffins my interior designer had left me in a welcome basket.
Tyler tried to sneak out to run to the store, but he didn’t even get off the property before a photographer appeared.
Thankfully, even the paps had to sleep, so I got out this morning. I assumed Tyler had a chance too since he was gone when I woke.
Babette waved for him to take a seat and with a groan, he did.
“Would you like a little help?” the woman asked, pointing to my head. “I have to fix my mom’s wigs all the time. Her hairdressers all joke that I should have been a stylist to the stars.”
Normally, if a stranger asked to help me, I’d refuse as I would assume they wanted something from me. But the wig was trying my patience. I peeled the fake hair off, careful not to pull off my wig cap.
“What happened to your eye?” Tyler asked louder than I would have wanted.
Glancing around, I saw a few people turn our way. Putting my hand up to my forehead, I covered my face. “It’s makeup. I poked my eye with my glasses.” I held up the offensive eye dagger without raising my head.
“You wear glasses? Since when? I had no idea.”
“No, I don’t. If you haven’t noticed, there are photographers everywhere. I need to hide.”
“All set,” the woman said.
Pulling the hair from her hands, I carefully positioned it on my head. She helped me adjust, added a little wig glue, and I hoped I looked almost normal.
“Wow, with that thing on, you really do look like a different person. If it wasn’t tangled before, I never would have recognized you.”
“Thank you for helping me.”
“I’m Olivia by the way. Olivia Love. I work with Tyler. He’s the town vet.”
I gazed over to his sparkling blue eyes. They were studying me but stopped at my hair.
“That was another dream of yours, wasn’t it, Tyler?” I asked as I studied him right back.
“Yes, and I almost gave it up.”
I didn’t know that. I was about to ask him about it when Babette cut in.
“Dr. Ferguson, I’m Babette Gotti, the other owner of the house.”
“I’d say it was nice to meet you, but I don’t really like to share.”
“That’s why I’m here. To discuss the house. It’s all yours, if you still want it,” Babette said to my amazement.
EIGHT
Tyler
“Are you serious—” Iona said before I reached over and covered her mouth with my hand.
“Wonderful.” I felt bad I had to pin back Olivia in order to shut Iona up before she ruined this for me. “I guess this is goodbye, Babette. It’s been nice almost getting to know you.” I began to scoot out of the booth after removing my hand from Iona’s mouth.
“Just a minute. You haven’t heard my conditions yet. Why don’t you order something and we can discuss this over lunch?”
I froze. I may not know this woman, but I had a good idea she was smart. And intelligent people don’t just plop loads of money on a property one day and give it away for free two days later.
I eased back and stared into Babette’s gray eyes. “What, exactly, are your conditions?” Debbie picked that moment to sidle up next to me. “Hey, Tyler, want your usual?”
She slid a cup of coffee across the table to Babette. Nodding to the waitress, she lifted the coffee to her lips and her eyes widened in surprise.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Really? You not feeling well, darling?”
I kept my eyes on Babette. “Yeah, something like that.” “And for you, Olivia?”
“Hot chocolate, bacon, and a salad. Thank you, Debbie.”
“Your apple fritters will be right up.” Debbie winked at Iona.
Silence stretched across our table once Debbie left. It was the kind of quiet that set my nerves ablaze. When I woke this morning, for a fraction of a second, I was happy. Memories of buying the house had me giddy, but then I remembered that Iona was in the guest bedroom. She had tried to claim the master, but that wasn’t going to happen.
The movers never showed yesterday and that added the cherry to the dumpster fire sundae that was my current state of being. I called the moving company and the two guys they sent had disappeared.
“What a pleasant homecoming.” Iona didn’t bother to keep the sarcastic tone from her lips.
“Oh, you’re from here? I had no idea. I moved here this year. I’m originally from Washington, DC.” Olivia smiled and did her best to break the tension. She was probably used to awkward silence since she was dating the grumpiest man to ever live—the sheep farmer, Carter Fitzwilliam.
Lost and Found (books 1-3): Small-Town Romantic Comedy Page 29
