Читать книгу Show Me A Hero - Allison Leigh - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Grant eyed the cardboard box sitting on the front porch.

He hadn’t noticed it the night before when he’d finally gotten home after the mess on the highway. The bulb in the porch light fixture still didn’t work even though he’d replaced it, and it was a wonder he hadn’t tripped over the carton in the dark.

He didn’t have to open the box to know what was in it. His publisher’s logo was imprinted on the side. The address of his cabin in Oregon was crossed out. The address where he stood now had been marked over it in slashing black ink. Because, God forbid, his author copies of CCT Final Rules should have remained behind at the cabin, along with everything else he didn’t want.

Just like Officer Ali Templeton, his ex-wife publisher had found him.

He grabbed the box and carried it inside, dumping it on the fireplace hearth.

He’d burn them right now, except he’d probably also end up burning down the entire house. Considering the overall condition of the place, he wasn’t setting a match to anything in the fireplace until he got a chance to have the chimney inspected.

He knew he had electrical problems. The porch light was just one example. He also knew he had plumbing problems. The kitchen faucet only worked on hot. The shower in his bathroom upstairs only worked on cold, which meant he was out of luck because the bathtub in the bathroom downstairs was too damn short. He was also pretty sure he smelled something burning every time he turned on the furnace, which was why he wore a damn coat inside the house, even when he was sleeping.

He could make things a lot easier on himself by giving up the notion of living here.

He could go back to Oregon anytime he chose. Calling his place there a “cabin” was basically just a nod to the fact that it was located on a remote, forested ridge that overlooked the wild coastline. But it had plenty of amenities. All the electrical outlets there worked. His shower had eight jets, and they all produced hot water. He could also go to the condo in Los Angeles that had sat vacant for more than a year while he’d holed up in Oregon pulling words out by his teeth to finish writing the book he hadn’t planned to write in the first place. And if he really wanted a different flavor, he’d never gotten rid of the New York brownstone that he and Chelsea had shared. When they’d gotten divorced, she’d moved into an apartment closer to her Manhattan office. He’d gone to Los Angeles, putting as much distance as he could between them.

Any one of those properties was by far better than this run-down ranch house he’d decided to fix up himself. But he had no desire to go anywhere else.

He just wished the box of books hadn’t found its way to him. It meant that he’d be hearing from his ex-wife sooner or later. Not because she harbored some emotional leftovers from their marriage, but because she still wouldn’t accept his decision to quit writing.

She called it a waste. Accused him of being lazy. Lacking ambition.

His gaze landed on the ancient mirror on the wall. The image looking back at him seemed to smirk.

“Right.” He grimaced. “That’s what you get for being married to your publisher.” He turned away. Nobody stood to make more money on another CCT Rules book than Chelsea did.

Not even him.

It was too cold inside the house to paint the walls. Besides, the holes in the plaster that he’d spent the previous evening patching were still damp. The gas stove in the kitchen worked—and he had even installed a couple of the cabinets now—but there was nothing in the refrigerator. That was what had driven him out the front door in the first place when he’d spotted the book shipment.

He went back outside and pulled the door closed behind him. Out of habit, he started to lock it, but didn’t. If anyone wanted to break in to steal a couple gallons of paint, they probably needed them more than he did. If they stole the plastic-wrapped couch...well, he could order another one online the same way he had this one.