“With the code. I rented this house for two weeks. How did you get in here?”
“Where did you rent this house?”
Have I mentioned that I’m over men? Because I am so over men. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’ve answered your question six times. I own this house. Where did you rent it?”
“Vacation rental site. And you answered that question twice, which doesn’t make me believe it any more than I did the first time. How do you have a vacation rental house that you don’t know is a vacation rental house?”
Something else flickers in his eyes—annoyance, I think—and for the first time since he nearly gave me a heart attack in the bathroom, I realize he might actually own this house, and there’s a reasonable chance I’m not supposed to be here.
Marshmallow seems to realize it too. He tilts his head, goes back on his haunches, and gives a final harumph.
It’s a harumph of of course you should’ve known renting this house for fifty bucks a night was too good to be true, Begonia. He lies down and curls one paw under his chest.
I cut a glance at the row of suits, shirts, and jeans lined up neatly on hangers in the closet. The dresser in the bedroom is full of men’s underwear and socks and the funniest assortment of pajama pants. There’s a study on the main floor, stocked with books and family photos that I haven’t looked at closely, because I assumed it was merely ornamental fluff to go along with the posh feel of the rest of the house.
But is this man in those photos?
Is this really his house?
It did seem odd that there were clothes and personal effects scattered about, but then, the last time I did a vacation rental, it was me and four of my college girlfriends renting a place in Panama City Beach, and not a swanky mansion like this. It made sense that popular spring break destinations would be as sparsely furnished as possible, given that it would usually be college kids pooling pennies to rent them, and that upscale luxury homes on quaint islands off the coast of Maine would have more amenities.
But again—fifty bucks a night.
When the listing said unexpected vacancy, special deal, I should’ve known.
I really should’ve known.
Am I—am I here illegally?
Welp.
I wanted an adventure.
Looks like I’m getting one. Might come with a mugshot.
My mother will love that.
But I have a vacation rental agreement. I can’t get arrested for trespassing when I have a rental agreement.
Can I?
Am I responsible if I didn’t know I signed a fraudulent agreement?
“Will you please put that damned hair dryer down?” he mutters. “And for god’s sake, tie the robe.”
I look down, squeak, then jerk my head back up while I aim the hair dryer at him and try to pull the two sides of the robe together with my other hand. I’m standing here with my cooch hanging out and at least one nipple pointing at him.
“Turn around.”
He aims his eyeballs at the ceiling. I yank the robe shut, tie it, then aim the blow dryer at him once again. “How do I know you’re the owner? What if you just know the owner? Or what if you’re casing the joint to figure out when the house will be empty next?”
“You’ve found me out. I’m a burglar. I’m the tuxedo burglar, and I only burgle while wearing last night’s formal wear. Whatever shall I take first?”
“Sarcasm is not attractive on you.”
“I don’t believe you’re in any condition to make observations about anyone else’s attractiveness.”
I gasp. Did he just—he did.
He called me ugly. “Marshmallow, bite him in the balls.”
My dog lifts his head, bites the edge of a pair of jeans, pulls them off the hanger, and delivers them to my feet.
My intruder—Hayes—makes that face again like he’s considering all the bad decisions he’s made in life that led him to this moment.
Or possibly I’m projecting.
But is this a bad moment? Does it have to be a bad moment? “Marshmallow, you know those don’t fit my hips. If you want to help me dress, get something out of my suitcase.”
My dog grins at me. This is his favorite game. Look what I know how to do, Mommy.
Hayes squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need to see a copy of this rental agreement.”
There’s nothing like being an obvious inconvenience to a man to make a woman believe his original intention wasn’t murder. Not saying I won’t annoy him enough that he’ll want to hurt me for other reasons—my ex-husband says I have a gift—but at the moment, I feel weirdly safe.