Romance Rules for Werewolves (Charming Cove, #3)(8)

Not that it mattered in this life-or-death situation.

I dragged my gaze up to his impossibly handsome face—strong jaw, full lips, brilliant green eyes, and perfectly tousled dark hair that was still damp from the shower. I was looking for a threat, and all I saw was stunned shock.

“Who are you?” I demanded, though it came out as more of a squeak.

“Who are you?” he replied. “And what are you doing in my house, dressed like a lunatic Victorian ghost?”

I gasped, offended. “Lunatic Victorian ghost?”

“You mean this wasn’t intentional?” He gestured from my face to my flowing white gown, and I remembered my streaky mascara.

“There was no more hot water left,” I said, focusing on the wrong thing. “And why the hell are you naked in my house?”

“I’m not naked, and it’s my house.”

I glared at him. “I’ve got the deed.”

“So do I.”

“That's not possible if I’ve got it.” But he was so confident that he definitely believed he did. As much as I wanted to get to the bottom of that, I needed to cover a few important things first. “Convince me you’re not going to murder me.”

A low laugh burst from him. “What?”

“You’re a giant half-naked man in the building I inherited from my grandmother. I have a right to be worried.”

He sobered, then stepped back. “You’re right. It’s still my house, but you’re right. I can see how you would be worried. You’re safe here, though. I’ve never murdered a single person, and I don’t plan to start now.”

He sounded genuine, and he’d been so shocked when he’d seen me that I believed his side of events, as inconvenient as they were for me. He didn’t intend to do wrong here, even though it was a real pain in the arse to have to argue over who owned this place.

He looked me up and down, a brow raised in a skeptical expression. “Now convince me you’re not a murder ghost from the nineteenth century.”

I laughed, shocked. “A murder ghost?”

He shrugged. “You’re dressed like one.” He gestured to my streaky face. “And this situation suggests you’re a bit unhinged.”

“What it suggests is that I ran out of hot water before I could properly wash my face, and then I heard a possible murderer in my new home, so I had to grab the nearest thing to wear. Which isn’t mine, by the way. It was my grandmother’s.” Suddenly, this was all too much. “I’m going to wash my face and get changed, and I’ll be back down in a bit. Put on some clothes. Please.”

“Gladly.” He turned and stalked off, and I couldn’t help but stare at the broad muscle planes of his back.

Poa gave a wheezy little whistle. I could climb that like a tree.

I rolled my eyes.

“I’m going to change. Don’t cause any problems while I’m gone.” I walked past her, headed back up the stairs. I wasn’t keen on wearing my dirty clothes, but it was better than dressing like a nineteenth-century murder ghost.

When I made it to the bathroom, my makeup was worse than I’d realized. I’d gone all out for my special date with Tommy, and it now ran down my face in a look that could only be described as “deranged comic book villain.” I scrubbed the makeup off in the cold water, then put my dress back on. It wasn’t the height of fashion, but it was at least clearly from this century. On my way out of the flat, I grabbed the bag of paperwork that the solicitor had given me.

When I reached the main floor, the man was already waiting for me, dressed in a pair of rugged camel-colored work pants and a thin blue T-shirt that did nothing to hide the ridiculous body underneath. He sat in the back corner of the room, in a space that had been turned into a small kitchen, looking relaxed in a chair that was far too small for him. On the table in front of him lay a piece of paper.

I walked toward him, my gaze on the paper.

He crossed his arms over his chest, a maneuver that made his biceps look even more impressive than when I’d first seen them—which was hard to believe—and nodded to the paper. “It’s all there.”

I set my bag on the table, then picked up the paper. It definitely looked like a deed, though I was no expert. And the name at the bottom was familiar—Albert Whitwell. “My uncle doesn’t own this place.”

“Albert Whitwell is your uncle?”

I nodded. “How did you meet him?”

“I didn’t. I bought the place through a listing agent.”

“That can’t be possible. My grandmother owned this place, and she willed it to me.” I reached into the bag I’d brought and retrieved the documents the solicitor had given me, then handed them over. “It’s all right here.”

He took them from me and flipped through them, his frown deepening. “These can’t be real.”

“I assure you, they are.”

“Well, so are mine.”

“This is going to be a mess, isn’t it?”

“Unless you’re planning to leave, yes.”

I laughed. “I’m not leaving.” I had nowhere to go, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. Anyway, this was my home, and I was going to fight for it.

“Neither am I.”