Читать книгу Killing Time - Leslie Kelly - Страница 9
CHAPTER THREE
Оглавление“SOTELL ME, what is this rumor I’ve heard about you renting a room to one of these TV people?”
Sophie Winchester smothered a groan as her peaceful Monday morning was interrupted immediately after she’d stepped into the church office. There was no mistaking that voice. It was Miss Hester, sister of Pastor Bob, her boss at the First Methodist Church of Derryville. Miss Hester’s sweet tones—so often heard dispensing wisdom, advice and fortitude to the congregational flock—usually spewed criticism and gossip in private.
“Is it true?” Miss Hester shut the door and turned around. “I heard the rumor yesterday.”
So much for keeping her plans a secret. Criminy, she’d only told her brother, Mick, two days ago that she wanted to rent out her house while it was up for sale. And already, the grapevine had gift-wrapped and hand-delivered the rumor to the proprietress of all things proper and good in Derryville, Hester Tomlinson. The one who’d been preaching from her own bully pulpit against allowing any Hollywood types near Derryville.
“Where did you hear that?” she asked, knowing Miss Hester wasn’t going to move her considerable girth out of the way to let her go to her desk until Sophie had spilled her guts.
“Tell me it’s not true. You, a respectable church secretary, are not opening your doors to a Hollywood gigolo who’ll ruin your reputation, destroy your engagement to Chief Fletcher and make a mockery of everything my dear brother preaches each Sunday.”
Oh. So, Miss Hester didn’t have the entire story straight. She thought Sophie was going to be rooming with some TV people. When she learned the truth—that Sophie was—gasp—going to live in sin with her fiancé for a couple of months—she’d shit bricks. Church secretaries simply didn’t do such things.
Not that Sophie was much of a church secretary. That was just the public life she’d lived for the past few years in order to keep her private one a secret. The public job wasn’t going to be hers much longer. She’d already been planning to resign. When Miss Hester learned she planned to give up her house to live with her fiancé, Daniel Fletcher, it’d be imperative.
“Everyone is talking about making it rich by renting out rooms to those…those Hollywood lowlifes.” Miss Hester sounded as if she was talking about insects, rather than human beings.
“Yes,” Sophie admitted, “it’s true. I’m going to rent out my house. I plan to sell it when Daniel and I get married, anyway.”
Miss Hester moved away, shutting the door behind her and striding toward Pastor Bob’s private inner office. “Come with me,” she said, her authoritative tone allowing for no argument.
Sophie began to smile, almost relieved that things were coming to a head. It looked like she might be quitting her job sooner rather than later. That meant she could unglue her tongue from the back of her teeth and tell the old battle-ax what she could do with her stupid job and her stupid rules and her stupid nosiness and her stupid self.
Once Sophie got into the other office, Miss Hester crossed her arms over her massive chest and frowned. “Your wedding’s not until October. Halloween, as I recall, as if anyone could forget a bride choosing such an unholy day for her sacred nuptials.”
When the truth came out about who Sophie was, and what she really did for a living, the wedding date might make sense.
“Actually, I’m going to go ahead and move out now.”
She felt relieved it was going to be over soon. She wanted it done, wanted to stop living a lie. She had her letter of resignation ready, though she’d planned to give it to Pastor Bob. But if Miss Hester pushed too hard, the letter would be hitting her so fast she’d think she’d missed someone yelling “fore.”
“Whoever rents the house would be there alone,” she added.
“Oh,” the woman said. “That’s better, at least.” The woman sounded approving. Sophie recognized the tone. Miss Hester used it on everyone, trying to convince most residents in Derryville that she really was the kindly hostess of her widowed pastor brother, rather than just a small-minded woman who lived on gossip and titillation. “Where do you plan to live in the meantime, dear?”
Sophie didn’t fall for the softened tone or the endearment.
“Are you staying with your parents?”
“No,” Sophie said, waiting for the right moment to tell Miss Hester that sweet little Sophie Winchester was going to be shacking up with the new police chief.
Before she could continue, Miss Hester was distracted by the ringing of her phone. Since Sophie wasn’t out in the reception area, the woman had to answer it herself, leaving Sophie to work up the right words that would mean, basically, take this job and shove it, but wouldn’t sound quite so truck driver-ish.
Not that Miss Hester didn’t deserve such language. The woman was like a scouring pad pretending to be a cotton ball. But Sophie had been directly in contact with the steel wool these days and knew there was nothing cottony soft about the woman.
Which made it awfully easy to picture killing the old broad. Killing. Mutilating. Maiming. Burying. Oh, yeah, Sophie had done it all in her mind. Not as herself, of course, but as her alter ego, R. F. Colt. The hottest horror fiction writer around today.
There was the main reason for quitting her job. Heaven knew she had enough work to do on her novels without living a secret life as a small-town church secretary. But, even though Daniel had convinced her people liked her for who she really was—not who she pretended to be—she had her doubts. Her family? Yes. Daniel? Yes. A few close friends and associates? Absolutely.
But if she told Miss Hester? The woman who’d pray for her poor, sorry soul and preach to her about the evils of a dissolute mind and a wicked imagination? No way. Not a chance. She’d only planned to reveal her secret once she was ready to whip out that resignation letter and switch to another church on Sundays. Which appeared to be right about now.
Miss Hester finally finished her phone call and turned her attention back to Sophie. “So, where will you be living?”
“I didn’t see the point in missing the summer real estate season, so I’m going to put the house on the market right away and rent it out in the meantime. It doesn’t make sense to wait until October.” Offering the other woman a tiny smile, Sophie added, “So I’m just going to move in with Daniel now.”
Miss Hester gasped. “You can’t. You simply can’t.”
“It’s not that big a deal.”
“It’s a disgrace. I’ve worked too hard to let you ruin things.” The woman’s voice rose to a near shout. “If you do this, don’t bother to come back the next day.”
Sophie shrugged. “You got it. I quit.”
Miss Hester’s jaw fell open, setting a few of her chins a-wiggling. “You ungrateful, miserable little sneak.”
Hmm…Miss Hester looked pretty ferocious when she was pissed off. Maybe the next time she included the woman as a character in one of her books, she’d make her the villain instead of just a comic relief secondary character or a gruesomely murdered victim.
“You’re as shameless as that no-good brother of yours.”
She’d brought Mick into this? Low. Very low. “I should defend Mick, but I mind my own business and leave my brother alone.” Let her stew on that.
Miss Hester did, quickly realizing the insult. “You are no longer welcome in this office.” Then, as if she had a direct line to God and could issue his invitations, she added, “Or in this church.”
Sophie shrugged. “There are other churches.” Just to be evil, she added, “I’ve been wanting to check out the synagogue, anyway. Or maybe that Buddhist temple up in Chicago.”
Miss Hester clutched a hand to her heart. “You wicked girl.”
Sophie wasn’t listening. She’d already turned toward the door, giving one last mutter. “Oh, drop dead.”
Feeling damn good, Sophie breezed into the reception area.
It was then that she noticed the crowd. The one who’d been listening to every nasty word. Mrs. Carlton who had an appointment with Miss Hester this morning. Dr. Ogilvie, a local dentist, who headed up the food-for-the-needy program. A red-faced Louise Flanagan. Darla from the nail salon. Every last one staring at her.
Damn, when she burst out of the closet, she did it in a big way. Giving them all a bright smile, she murmured, “Good morning,” then walked out the door into the sunshine.
EARLY THAT AFTERNOON, trapped inside a car with the most exasperating man she’d ever known, Caro was on the verge of a meltdown. Every rental in Derryville had something wrong with it. Either the owners were old, loud and nosy or young, loud and obnoxious. Or the rental room was painted a garish Day-Glo green. Or the chain-smoking owner had created a lot of fragrant memories.
Nothing suited her. Least of all the man showing her place after place, a faint smile always evident on his lips. That smile told her more than his silence ever could.
“You’re enjoying this,” she said, watching him wave to yet another local on the streets of Derryville.
He gave her an innocent look. “Enjoying what?”
“Enjoying watching me sweat.”
“I’ve always enjoyed watching you sweat,” he replied, completely unrepentant. “Does you good to get a little worked up once in a while. You look so…” He gestured toward her pressed linen suit, the stylish linen jacket and short white skirt, as if he found the latest fashion lacking.
“So what?”
“So buttoned-up.”
“Professional, I think is the word you want.”
“I was thinking more like cold.”
Cold? He thought she was cold? Good grief, one of the most difficult things she’d overcome when arriving in Hollywood was the impression that she was an innocent young girl, big of heart, warm of spirit, always ready to listen to a sob story. Impressionable, exuberant, naive but clever, they’d called her.
Now Mick was calling her cold. It shouldn’t have bothered her, but, deep down, it did.
“Let’s stick to the subject—finding me a place to live.”
“You’re the one who’s being picky. I’ve shown you four reasonable places.”
“Ugh. Reasonable?”
“You didn’t have better luck on your own,” he reminded her.
No, she hadn’t. Not that the jerk had to bring up the fact that she’d tried. This morning, after their initial run-in in his office, she’d stormed off, determined to find someplace to live without his help. She’d been back an hour later, disheartened and frustrated. The local paper hadn’t listed one single rental. Nor would any of the people with For Rent signs in their yards agree to let her come through without a Realtor.
“Are you the only Realtor in Derryville?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Nah. I have two associates working with me.”
Her spirits perked up at that. Then he dashed her hopes. “But they’re both off this weekend.”
She groaned and stared out the window. “How is it that the only hotel in this town looks like it rents by the hour?”
“Because it does.”
“Yeah, well, I guess you’d know.”
“I’m sure Hollywood doesn’t have such sordid goings-on.”
She couldn’t hide a smile. “Okay, you got me on that one.”
The tension seemed to ease somewhat, probably because she’d finally lightened up. Mick had always been able to lighten her mood. Heck, Mick had always been able to make anybody feel better. It was impossible to be down with someone who was always up.
“Tell me about this TV show,” he said, obviously trying to keep the conversation friendly and impersonal. They both seemed to have reached the same silent conclusion that the past was better left undiscussed, at least for now. “Why’d you decide to film it here? Why the Little Bohemie Inn?”
Safe ground. They could talk business without Caro feeling the urge to reach over and play with his earlobe. Either that or give his hair a good yank because he’d made her so angry every time she’d thought about him over the years. “We’re always on the lookout for new shows. Reality TV had been really hot the last few years.”
He sighed. “Yeah. I was wondering when they’d start the live execution show. Or ‘Who Wants to Let Their Dog Marry a Millionaire’s Dog?’.”
She laughed, unable to help it. Because what he described wasn’t so far off the mark. She felt pretty sure that, somewhere, a desperate Hollywood down-and-outer had thought of just such an idea as a way to try to get back in. “This isn’t going to be anything quite as gratuitous. Actually, the owner of the inn gave us the idea for the show, herself. Gwen…um….”
“Winchester.” He didn’t so much as crack a smile, but she heard the amusement in his voice.
She sighed heavily. “Don’t tell me…”
“She married my cousin last spring.”
Another Winchester. Oh, joy. Another wonderful day-to-day reminder of the only guy she’d ever loved. Her trip to Derryville should be renamed a visit to purgatory.
“So how’d Gwen give you the show idea?”
“A review of the inn in a Chicago paper mentioned they were doing in-character murder mystery weekends. Someone at the network saw it, thought it would be an interesting concept and came up with Killing Time in a Small Town.”
Mick nodded. “Those in-character weekends at the Little Bohemie Inn are something else. And you should probably thank my cousin, Jared, for inspiring the idea.” He wore a secretive look, as though he had a story to tell, but instead kept the conversation away from personal matters. “I’d heard it was a murder mystery show. I don’t suppose society has fallen quite so low as to have real murders for our viewing pleasure?”
“Only on cable. Not on one of the big three networks.”
He gave her a sideways glance, nodding his appreciation of her humor. Where that humor had come from, she couldn’t say. Her mind told her she was still mad at him, still hurt by him, still insane to spend even one minute alone with him.
But her body, her spirit, her long-dormant sunny, open, good nature, reminded her that she’d always liked being around this guy. He’d always been able to make her laugh, make her give in to crazy impulses and live for the moment.
That thought doused the good humor. She’d stopped living for the moment a long time ago. Judging by the fact that some local woman had thought she needed to “save” Mick from himself, he hadn’t.
He hadn’t stopped being the kind of impulsive person who did what he wanted, when he wanted, with whom he wanted. He was still self-indulgent, still a creature of his senses, still a walking testament to living life for fun and pleasure. Exactly the kind of man she’d predicted he’d be. Exactly the kind of man she’d decided to exclude from her life. No matter how much it hurt.
“How does the show work?”
She cleared her throat, trying to regain her better mood. “It’s supposed to walk the line between reality TV shows and the scripted variety. It’s like that old party game, where one person is a killer and nobody knows who it is until they get ‘winked’ at. Then they are murdered and out of the game.”
He nodded absently. “So the contestants aren’t taking part in challenges to see who wins. They could actually get outwitted and killed?”
“They take part in challenges to try to figure out who, among them, is the killer. And also to earn exemptions on murder nights.”
“Are they actors, playing roles?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Real people, not actors. Playing themselves, but always ‘in character.”’
Mick gave her a questioning look as he directed the car off the main street through town and turned toward another subdivision with another rental possibility. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, they will have to do some acting because they’re supposed to behave from day one as if they’re really registering at a spooky, possibly haunted inn, and suddenly murder and mayhem erupt in the town around them.”
And that was the tricky part of this entire reality show adventure. Because the contestants couldn’t just be themselves. To make the show a success, the cast had to act as if everything—every murder, every drop of blood, fingerprint, mysterious stranger and unexplained noise in the night—was real.
Unfortunately, she imagined the closest some of them had ever come to acting was faking the occasional orgasm.
He nodded. “An in-character reality TV cast. That’s not so unusual, I guess. I mean, aren’t a lot of the contestants of these reality shows acting like sweet, marriageable girls when they’re really foot fetish models or all-around bitches?”
She chuckled. “Right.”
“Do they have to follow a script or something?”
She shook her head. “Nothing that happens is scripted beyond outlines of where they all need to go every day and the locations and descriptions of the murders. And the murder plot. We’ve set up the first few victims of the ‘Derryville Demon,’ but as for who dies after that, it’s anyone’s guess.”
Before Caroline could continue, she saw that an attractive woman was placing a “For Rent” sign in front of the pretty house that had caught her eye. Her spirits lifted. “Is this it?”
Mick glanced over, gave a surprised look, then shook his head. “No, this isn’t the one.”
“Stop anyway,” she urged, liking the profusion of flowers beside the front porch, and the way the big maple tree out front shaded the windows of the lovely yellow house.
“You wouldn’t be interested in that one.”
“Who says? Stop the car.”
“She’s renting the whole house, Caroline.”
“It’s Caro.”
“Caro’s syrup. It’s not a name, it’s something you put on pancakes,” he muttered.
“No, maple syrup’s what you put on pancakes. Caro’s—oh, would you just stop?”
He pulled the car up to the curb of the house. The woman, who’d just finished placing the sign, instantly straightened.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he said softly.
But Caro was already stepping out of the car, smiling at the homeowner. Mick might think she was a big-city snob now, but frankly, Caro couldn’t think of a lovelier place to stay during her upcoming weeks in Derryville. The house was small, a one-story cottage with a freestanding one-car garage. With the quiet street, well-kept yard and friendly appearance of the owner, she felt sure this was going to be the place.
It was only when Mick brushed past her, striding over to the small brunette, that Caro realized she might be wrong.
Then she noticed the woman looked upset. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Mick asked as he tenderly touched the woman’s cheek.
Caro swallowed hard, suddenly remembering the kindness of which this man was capable. Yes, Mick had always been a flirt, a rogue, a…dog. But he’d also always been a sucker for someone in distress. Especially if that someone was a female.
The woman didn’t respond in words. Instead, she threw her arms around Mick’s neck and hugged him tight.
Oh, but it hurt to see that. Obviously the reason Mick hadn’t wanted to stop at this particular house was because its owner was his current…whatever. He’d tried to stop her. It was her own fault she had to witness yet another moment with Mick and another female. Kinda like the one that had broken them up.
Well, no way was she going to let him see she was the least bit bothered by that idea. While Mick and the woman talked quietly in the yard, Caro wandered up to the porch, noticing how fragrant the flowers beside it smelled.
“I’m so sorry,” a woman’s voice said. “You guys caught me at the wrong moment.”
“Right moment,” Mick said, his arm draped casually over the other woman’s shoulders as they walked up to join Caro. “It’s not every day you get fired.”
“Fired?” Caro frowned. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
The woman shrugged. “I didn’t get fired. I quit. Sort of. It was kind of mutual.” Then a frown pulled the woman’s pretty brow down. “I just wish half the town hadn’t heard it.”
“You’re exaggerating, honey,” Mick murmured.
Honey. Ouch.
“Anyway,” the woman said, extending her hand toward Caro, “welcome. I’m glad you might be interested in the house. I’m anxious to move, especially now that I don’t have to worry about how it will affect my job. My name’s Sophie Winchester.”
Good Lord. Winchester. Had she been stricken so numb at seeing Mick again that she hadn’t even noticed a gold band on his left hand? Then she remembered something. Her instant relief surprised her. “Sophie. You’re Mick’s baby sister, right?”
The woman looked surprised. “Yes. How did you know that?”
Caro felt heat rise into her cheeks as Mick watched, an obvious grin on his face. He was enjoying this, enjoying watching her sweat as she tried to explain to his sister that she and Mick had once been very close. Often close enough that not a thing had come between them—including clothes. “Mick and I were college friends,” she said. “I remember him mentioning you.”
“Small world.” Sophie graciously dropped the subject as if she read Caro’s discomfort. “Come on inside.”
Ten minutes later, after touring the house with Sophie, who was both funny and charming, Caro had reached two conclusions. First, the house was perfect for her.
And second, it would never, never work.
Because Sophie had a cat. A big fat cat who reacted as every cat did when Caro came in contact with one. As if knowing which people either didn’t like or were allergic to them, felines always curled around her, purring and wanting to be petted.
Just breathing the air in the house was clogging up her throat. Petting Mugs, as Sophie called him, could put Caro in the hospital. There was no way she could live here, even with a thorough cleaning. Caro’s allergies were simply too severe.
Which left her stuck, again, in two ways. First, she still had no place to live. Second, and even worse, she had to get back in the car to do more house-hunting with Mick Winchester.
MICK SHOULD HAVE known better than to take the side streets back to downtown Derryville to his office. He should have stuck to the main road, getting Caroline to her car and out of his life as soon as possible. He should have done everything in his power to bring their interaction to an end, letting her figure out on her own where she was going to live.
He’d done none of the above. Instead, some demon deep inside him made him cut through a quiet neighborhood with which he was very familiar. He told himself it was shorter. That was bullshit.
The truth was, he was still ticked at her. Still affected by her. Still wanting her gone but not wanting her to leave.
Still stunned that she was here.
Caroline Lamb, right back in the center of his world, and sending it as crazily off balance as she always had. Things had never been peaceful and calm with them. They’d struck sparks off each other from the time they’d met, and Caro had always known how to push his buttons.
Like today. The never-ending house hunt was pure Caroline Lamb. Okay, so old man Snorkle was a heavy smoker and every surface in the house was a sickly beige nicotine color. And yeah, Mrs. Spencer was color blind and the spare room in her house would have been perfect for a patriotic leprechaun. And right, the McKenzies were old and deaf but refused to use hearing aids so their conversations were at the decibel level of a jackhammer.
Picky, picky.
The fact that she’d refused Sophie’s place had really ticked him off. It would have been perfect for her, and would have helped out Sophie. Not that Sophie needed the money. He almost chuckled at that one, remembering how shocked he’d been to learn his bratty kid sister was a famous hack-’em-up horror novelist. So successful she could probably buy and sell him ten times over.
But it would have helped her out to know that someone quiet, respectable and responsible was taking care of her house while she was living with her fiancé.
His jaw tightened at the thought of Sophie living with a man. Then he eased up. Divorce was so common, he’d rather Sophie and Daniel give things a try now than have regrets later.
But Caroline hadn’t wanted Sophie’s house. When he’d accused her of rejecting it to try to avoid him, she hadn’t denied it.
So, she wanted to avoid him. Huh. That’d be a trick in Derryville.
What really bugged him was the evidence that Caroline had turned into such a coward. The girl he’d known back in college wouldn’t have given a damn where he went, what he thought or what he did. Caroline had been all fire and energy, a whirling ball of excitement, always up for adventure, whether it was going four-wheeling up in the mountains in a borrowed Jeep or taking a spontaneous twenty-hour road trip to the beach one weekend.
That girl was gone. Long gone. Not at all in evidence in the tight-lipped, tight-formed woman sitting in his car.
So he couldn’t really say what had made him choose this particular street—his anger, his sense of adventure or his need to once again see Caroline Lamb sweat. Probably all of the above.
“Stop!” She pointed. “There, that one.”
He knew which house she was pointing to. The one on the corner. The big old two-story with the nicely treed lot and the driveway that circled around the front.
“There’s a Room For Rent sign.”
Yeah, there was. “Not this house, Caroline.”
“You only have one sister.” She reached for the door handle. “Don’t tell me another one of your family members lives here.”
He shook his head. “Nope, I’m not telling you that.”
Then, because Mick just could never resist giving someone enough rope to hang themselves with, he let Caroline get out of the car and walk toward the house. He followed her, coming close to telling her the truth, but deciding against it.
Caroline went to the sign and pulled out a flyer. Her eyes sparked with indignation. “You have this place listed for rent.”
“Yep.”
“So why didn’t you tell me about it?”
Because I’m not a freakin’ lunatic?
“I didn’t think it would suit,” he replied, wondering why the hell he didn’t just admit the truth so they could get out of here. Somehow, though, he was starting to have a little fun.
Caroline kept reading. “It has an in-law suite and there’s only one resident. How bad could that be? I mean, there’s no ax murderer or psychopath living here, is there?”
“Not as far as I know,” he said with a chuckle, “but you can never be too sure about some people.”
As if on cue, the front door to the house opened and a very familiar older woman walked out. Mick smothered a sigh, having no doubt what she had been doing inside. Baking.
Caroline shot him a glare as she saw the older woman, complete with iron-gray hair, a pair of wire-framed glasses and a brightly colored dress. “Oh, I’m shaking in my shoes,” Caroline muttered, sotto voce. “I won’t sleep a wink wondering if she’s going to have a raunchy sex party.”
He gulped at that image. Then he gave her a bit more rope…because she deserved it for bringing up the word sex when that was about all he’d been thinking about since he’d laid eyes on her again.
Sex. With her. Lots of it. The kind they used to have when they were young and hungry, when every cell in his body had contained a raging hormone and every one of them had been screaming her name.
“I can’t believe you didn’t mention this place. Did you intentionally make me suffer with all those other ones this morning? Was this some kind of ploy to get even because I dumped you back in college?”
Talk about déjà vu. They’d been in each other’s company only a few hours and once again she was accusing him when he hadn’t done a thing to deserve it. Just like she had when they’d broken up, when she’d thrown ugly words like playboy, irresponsible and “unable to be faithful” at his face. All because she’d seen a questionable moment and chosen to believe the worst.
“The rent is very reasonable,” he replied evenly, not responding to her barb.
The older woman walked down off the porch and finally noticed them standing on the front walk. “Oh, you caught me,” she said, giving Mick a guilty-looking smile. “I just took a pie out of the oven and left it to cool on the counter.”
Caroline extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Caro Lamb.”
“Caro..lan? How nice to meet you, dear.”
“Uh, Lamb. That is…never mind. It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m interested in the room for rent.”
Mick suffered under a ten-second stare from a pair of eyes that had been able to make him spill his guts with just a glance from the time he’d been a kid. “She’s with the reality show and needs a place to stay for a few weeks.” One fine gray brow arched a bit. “I’ve shown her every rental in town,” he added.
Those stiffened shoulders eased a bit. “Well then, how wonderful. I’m sure you’ll love it. I have a hair appointment, so I’ll get out of your way and let you go look.”
Mick watched her leave, then turned his attention to Caroline. She went up to the porch, gave the two-person swing a little push and stood up on tiptoe to sniff at a flowering plant hanging by the door. Her smile was evident from down here on the lawn. She suddenly looked much more like the girl he’d known, which didn’t make him feel one bit better.
She even sat down on the swing, setting it in motion with a kick and wiggling to make herself more comfortable while she waited for him to open the house.
“This is wonderful,” she murmured.
She liked the place. Damn, why did that hurt so much?
“I want to see the inside. If it’s as perfect as the outside, then I think I’ve found where I want to live.”
“You’re making a mistake…”
“No, I’m not,” she said, rising from the swing and staring down at him from three steps above. “Stop telling me what I want and what I don’t, Mick. I would have thought you’d learned a long time ago that I don’t take well to that kind of thing.”
He stiffened. Like he’d needed a reminder of how she’d reacted when he’d tried to insist she didn’t really want to move out to L.A. That her future was with him.
The anger in her voice and condemnation in her eyes was the last straw. He didn’t protest as she looked at the house. As predicted, she loved it. She really went crazy over the rec room with the amazing TV setup. Caroline was ready to move full speed ahead and sign a lease on the spare suite of rooms.
So be it.
An hour later, after she’d signed the papers and paid the full four weeks’ rent in advance, he watched her pull away from his office without a backwards glance.
“You made your bed, babe. Now you can lie in it.”
He just couldn’t wait to see what she said when she found out that bed was in his house.