“Jamie Newman. How is it that you don’t even know the name of the person you rented your rundown, crappy shack to?”
Okay, curvy and cute or not, this chick was stomping on his last nerve. Just as she’d done, he drew a calming breath, then continued, “Look, Jamie, I’m tired, cranky, sleep deprived, and in need of an IV drip of caffeine—”
“Well, that’s what happens when you go off on a three-day bender,” she said without a lick of sympathy in her tone.
“What makes you think I was off on a bender?”
“Word gets around quick in a town this size. Are you saying you weren’t?”
“I can’t see how that’s any of your business. Those clams, however, were my business. It took me hours to rake them, and they were fresh from the water when I put them in the fridge.” At least he thought he’d put them in the fridge. “Why did you kill them?”
“I didn’t kill them. They were dead when I arrived. And they weren’t in the fridge, they were in the sink. Do you have any idea what dead clams smell like?”
In spite of his annoyance, he had to concede that she had a point—which only irked him further. That, and the fact that he’d apparently not put his catch in the refrigerator at all. “Yeah, I do.” He cut his gaze toward Godiva, who’d bellied forward so her front paw now rested on his bare foot. “Godiva found one on the beach last week and rolled herself all over it in ecstasy. She thought she smelled swell, but it was gag worthy—and since that was from just one clam, I can imagine an entire bagful really reeked. So, sorry about that—my bad.”
She appeared unimpressed with his apology and merely raised her brows. “You named your dog Godiva?”
Godiva woofed once and licked her chops at the sound of her name. “She’s a chocolate Lab,” Nick said. “And I like chocolate. You got a problem with that?” Yeah, ’cause if she did, he’d sic Godiva on her and Jamie Pain-in-the-Neck Newman would find herself slathered in doggie kisses.
Instead of answering his question, she asked, “Are you sober?”
“Are you?” he countered.
She blinked. “Of course. Why would you think I wasn’t?”
“By your own admission, you stole my vodka and tossed back a few.”
“I didn’t steal it. It was in my freezer—which, by the way, wasn’t even working, due to a storm the night before I arrived, until I flipped the breaker switch. You’re welcome.”
“Since I own the place, it’s my freezer, and therefore my vodka.”
“Well, then I’ll be sure to see that your property is returned to you as soon as possible. In the meantime, I’m stuck here for now and I want to know, for starters, when you plan to fix the steps and the leaky roof.”
“They’re on my list of things to do.”
“Terrific. When? Because before I arrived would have been great.”
“You know, you’re really demanding for someone who rented the place ‘as is.’ You knew up front it wasn’t a Ritz Carlton, and that repairs would be ongoing during your stay.”
A frown puckered her brow. “What are you talking about ‘as is’? And what do you mean ‘ongoing repairs’?”
“Did you read the rental agreement? All the terms were in there.”
Her frown deepened. “Of course I read the rental agreement and I assure you there was nothing that mentioned the poor condition of the house, the words ‘as is,’ or ‘ongoing’ repairs. Nor was any of that mentioned on the Seaside Cove Rentals website.”
She pursed her full lips and planted her hands on her hips. “And speaking of the website, you should be ashamed of yourself for so grossly misrepresenting the property there. Those photos must have been taken in 1972.”
Now it was Nick’s turn to frown. “What photos are you talking about?”
“The ones of Paradise Lost looking all freshly painted and charming and pristine, with decent furniture. With a yard that actually contained grass. And a shower curtain that actually hung from the rod. And a staircase with a full set of steps.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen any photos like that.”
“Really? Well, how lucky that I just happen to have a printout of the web page featuring them to refresh your apparently alcohol-soaked memory.”
“You have a printout? Wow, you sure are anal.”
She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of printer paper, which she thrust at him. “No, I’m organized . And frugal. Which means I don’t like wasting money on things that aren’t what they’re advertised to be.”
Nick unfolded the paper and looked at a computer printout containing half a dozen grainy images of the exterior and interior of a cozy beach cottage. On the last exterior shot, a plaque that appeared brand new hung over the carport, proclaiming the house to be Paradise Lost.
He thrust the paper right back at her. “You Photoshopped those.”
“Right—because that’s what I am—a photo forger whose fondest dream was to pretend that the cottage I rented for the entire summer was livable.”
“All I can say is that the photos I e-mailed to Jack Crawford for the website ad were taken only a couple weeks ago—and showed Paradise Lost as she is today—warts and all. I only put the place up for rent at his urging, and he told me it would probably be taken by some crusty fisherman type who just needed a place to flop between boat trips. It never occurred to me some princess would move in for the summer.”
Irritation and disbelief were written all over her face. “First of all, I’m not a princess. And secondly, warts and all is clearly not what was depicted on the website. Nor was there any mention of this ‘as is’ nonsense.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
Given the fact that if looks could have chopped off heads, her expression would have decapitated him—and for all he knew maybe she was an ax murderer—he decided a bit of diplomacy might be in order. “I’m saying there’s clearly been a misunderstanding.”
“Yes, there has. On your end. Do you have a computer? Let’s check out the website right now.”
Nick wanted to check out the website right now like he wanted a bad rash, but since it obviously needed to be done, he might as well get it over with. “We can use my iPhone. I’ll get it.” He considered closing the door on her while he did so, but a lifetime of good manners drilled into him by his mother had him stepping back and asking, “You want to step inside?”
She hesitated and then shrugged. “All right. Thanks.”
She crossed the threshold, stepping around Godiva, who was sprawled on the linoleum floor like a big brown carpet, happily gnawing on a rawhide treat.
“Looks like a bomb landed in here,” she commented, her gaze sweeping over the gutted kitchen, empty except for an ancient fridge.
“I’m renovating, making repairs. Putting in a new kitchen.”
Her gaze moved into the living area, taking in the doors leading to the bedrooms and the sliding doors that led to the screened porch that ran the length of the front of the house. “This place is laid out the same as Paradise Lost.”
“Most of the smaller homes on the island are this same shotgun style. There aren’t many of them left—people have bought them just for the land, then torn them down and put up bigger, newer places to take advantage of the summer rental market here. Have a seat,” he said, nodding toward one of the two wooden bar stools that stood where the snack bar used to be. “I’ll be right back.”
He entered his bedroom and, after closing the door behind him, rolled his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck. Pesky woman. He should have slammed the door in her face. Told her to take a hike. But that printout she’d shown him and her insistence about there being no mention of Paradise Lost’s “as is” condition on the rental site had a bad feeling tugging in his gut. He hadn’t checked the site after sending Jack Crawford the info and photos. Actually, he’d only agreed to rent the place at Jack’s insistence. He liked the Realtor—he reminded Nic
k of one of his favorite college professors, and he’d figured what the hell? The rental money would come in handy as there were so many repairs he needed to make to both houses. Nick hadn’t believed anyone would want to rent Paradise Lost as it was, but Jack had assured him, “If you put it on the website, they will come.”
Now where the hell was his phone? During his search he located his laptop. How had it ended up under a pile of laundry? Damned if he knew. It took him another few minutes to hunt up his phone, which he found under another pile of laundry.
Guess it was time to do some laundry.
With the phone gripped in his hand, he opened the bedroom door and stepped into the living area. And halted at the sight of Jamie Newman sitting on the plywood that was currently his kitchen floor, rubbing Godiva’s belly. Godiva’s hind legs twitched in delight and she was making her “Oh, please God, never stop doing that” noises while covering Jamie’s elbow in adoring kisses.
“You are just the sweetest thing, aren’t you?” Jamie crooned, sending Godiva into a state of complete canine euphoria by scratching behind her ears with one hand while still rubbing her belly with the other.
Nick found himself all but hypnotized by the sight of that rubbing hand … stroking, over and over. An image of that small, soft-looking hand stroking his belly suddenly popped into his mind and he realized with a slap of annoyance that he’d settled his palm against his own abdomen.
He jerked his hand away as if he’d burned himself. Damn annoying woman. An opinion that was magnified tenfold when she said to Godiva, “How did a sweet baby like you end up with such an annoying, irresponsible doofus?”
“Good news is, Godiva doesn’t think I’m an annoying, irresponsible doofus,” Nick said, walking into the gutted kitchen. “She doesn’t judge people—something you might want to think about. And just FYI—it’s not polite to denigrate a man to his own dog.”
She gave Godiva a final pat and then stood. “Since you’re so big on manners, it’s not polite to greet guests with your pants unbuttoned.”
“You’re not a guest and I didn’t invite you, so you’re just going to have to deal with what you get when you drag a man out of bed at the crack of dawn.”
Chalking up a mental point for himself, he opened the browser on his phone and pulled up the Seaside Cove Rentals website.
“Look under the New Rentals tab,” she instructed, leaning in to peer at the screen.
Her bare shoulder brushed his bare arm and a bolt of heat that was surely annoyance shot through him. The faint scent of something delicious wafted up his nose and he found himself turning his head toward her and taking a few discreet sniffs.
Cookies. She smelled like cookies. Sweet, delicious, freshfrom-the-oven cookies. His stomach immediately rumbled and he pressed his lips together. Damn it, he loved cookies. And double damn it, he was hungry. And suddenly craving cookies. And there wasn’t a damn cookie in sight. Except her. Jamie Pain-in-the-Ass Newman.
Who, he realized, had stepped away from him and was regarding him through narrowed eyes. “Did you just smell my hair?”
“Certainly not.” He’d smelled … the area around her hair. Definitely not the same thing. He’d actually wanted to smell her neck, but based on the “eat shit and die” expression shooting from her eyes, that wouldn’t have gone over well. But really, if she didn’t want guys smelling her, she damn well shouldn’t make herself smell like cookies!
His stomach rumbled again, and with a grunt of irritation, he turned his attention back to his phone. He tapped the New Rentals tab, and after some quick scrolling, saw the ad for Paradise Lost. A red banner proclaiming the property No Longer Available! bisected the ad, but it was still easy to see that the same photos Jamie had on her printout were featured on the web page. The bad feeling that had tugged his gut ballooned into a full-fledged oh, shit as he read the entire ad.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered. As she’d claimed, there wasn’t one mention of “as is” or ongoing repairs. And the only photos were those showing Paradise Lost looking like … well, paradise.
Crap. It was way too early in the morning for this. And without a cup of coffee in sight. He dragged a weary hand through his hair and met her gaze. “It appears you’re right.”
She raised her brows. “It appears I’m right?”
Great—he now knew what it felt like to have his blood pressure jump twenty points. “If you’d quit being sarcastic, you’d realize I’m attempting to apologize.” He had to clamp his lips shut for several seconds to keep himself from adding you pesky smartass to the end of his sentence. “I sent Jack recent photos—where he found those other ones, I have no idea. I can’t explain why the wording in the ad didn’t state the house’s condition. It should have, and I can only say I’m sorry it didn’t. Clearly there was a miscommunication somewhere along the way between me and Jack. I’ll call him later this morning to find out what happened.”
He blew out a quick breath, then continued, “But at this point, I can’t see that it really matters. Paradise Lost is the way it is. Given that it wasn’t properly presented on the website, I can understand you being upset. If you want to leave, I’ll fully refund your money.”
He watched the expressions flicker across her face—surprise and confusion (obviously she hadn’t expected an apology. Ha! Take that Miss Door Pounder), annoyance (no big surprise there), and finally distress.
“I can’t leave,” she said. “Where would I go?”
“Uh, back where you came from?” he said, unable to keep the note of hope out of his voice.
A look of pure horror came over her face and he suddenly wondered what had motivated her last-minute plan to spend the summer here.
“I can’t. I sublet my apartment.”
“Maybe you could stay with family?”
He actually saw a shudder shake her. And oh, Christ, were those tears filling her eyes? No, please, God, not tears. Jesus, he couldn’t possibly deal with girl tears before he’d had coffee.
She blinked several times and he damn near swayed with relief when no tears fell. “Ah, staying with family isn’t an option.”
Hmmmm. Clearly a story there, but he sure as hell wouldn’t be asking about it. Oh, no. He wasn’t about to be sucked into her drama. He’d come to Seaside Cove to escape drama—not find it. “Friends? Hotel?”
“I can’t impose on anyone for two months,” she said, “and I can’t afford a hotel for that length of time.”
“Well, you could always suck it up, princess, and stay here.” The instant the words left his mouth, he wanted to smack himself upside his own head. What the hell are you saying, dude? his inner voice yelled. Let her go! Who needs this prissy princess living next door? Not you. She’ll make your life a living hell if she stays.
“In the cottage of horrors with the raindrops falling on me and the Stairs of Death? Not tempting.”
Good. But then his damn conscience kicked him in the ass and he heaved a sigh. Clearly it was the lack of food and caffeine that had him feeling sorry for her. If he didn’t get a cup of coffee and some food in him soon, he was going to black out.
“Look,” he said, giving in to his sense of fair play, “the weather’s supposed to be good for the next couple of days. I’ll start work today on the stairs—shouldn’t take me more than a few hours to make the repairs. Then I’ll start on the roof.”
She chewed on her lower lip, drawing his attention to her mouth. Damn, that was one gorgeous mouth. Full, pink lips … he was definitely a lip man. He was just contemplating whether those lips would taste like cookies when she said, “Well?”
He forced his gaze up to hers and her expression made it clear he’d dropped the conversational ball. “Well what?”
“You’ll have the roof done before it rains again?”
“I can’t predict the weather—all I can say is that I’ll try.”
“And the shower curtain?”
“I’ll pick one up, along with the hanging things, when I hit Home D
epot.”
“There’s a Home Depot around here?”
He couldn’t recall ever hearing a woman sound so hopeful about a Home Depot. “Yeah. It’s about ten miles down Route 4. Next to the Piggly Wiggly.”
Interest flared in her eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was directed at him or Home Depot or the Piggly Wiggly, but either way, heat zoomed through him. “You have a car?” she asked.
“A pickup. Why?”
“Looks like we’re going to be neighbors.”
Chapter 4
Jamie climbed into the passenger seat of Nick Trent’s pickup truck—a vehicle she never would have believed was his given its spotless, shiny black exterior and equally pristine interior. She would’ve bet a month’s rent his vehicle would have been in the same deplorable condition as Paradise Lost. Good thing she didn’t like to gamble.
As he buckled his seat belt in preparation of heading to the shopping mecca that contained Home Depot—aka the store that would save Paradise Lost—and Piggly Wiggly—aka the supermarket that would save her and Cupcake from starvation and her pet from the roasting pan litter box—she found herself unable to stop taking surreptitious peeks at Nick from the corner of her eye. And she couldn’t figure out why.
Men who looked like the morning after a rough night had never appealed to her before. She’d always been attracted to neat, orderly, clean-cut men. But for reasons she couldn’t understand, Nick Trent had grabbed her attention the instant he’d opened his door, with his bare chiseled chest and rockhard abs, and those darn unbuttoned jeans. Who answered the door like that? He’d looked like his bender had ended with a hedonistic orgy. For all she knew, there’d been some tramp sleeping off a hangover in his bed. All reasons for her to be completely turned off and to utterly ignore him.
Instead, even her righteous anger hadn’t been able to keep her thoughts completely on the matter at hand, and throughout their conversation, part of her brain had uncharacteristically and really annoyingly kept wandering off track, distracting her with whispers of Whoa, he is steaming hot! and Hmmmm … could his hair feel as thick and soft as it looks? and Wow—what a gorgeous mouth. Wonder if he knows how to use it for anything besides sucking down alcohol? Her fingers had practically itched with the urge to reach out and pull his fascinatingly half-mast fly the rest of the way down, er, up. She meant up. Absolutely up.
Summer at Seaside Cove Page 5
