Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (6 page)

Sam released her arm from Mazy’s waist. Pointing west, she said, “Go back over the bridge, and hang a right. The hardware store is in a shopping area on the left. You can't miss it. It has a bunch of lawn-mowers parked out front."

"Thank you. Do you need anything?" He couldn't imagine what she might need from the hardware store, but it seemed polite to make the offer.

"Nope. I'm good." Her voice had a cold edge.

It dawned on him that she might assume since he owned the house, he planned to take over the master suite, the one room she seemed to spend most of her time in, judging from the mess. "Sam, I don't mind if you continue to stay in the master bedroom. I'll sleep in the guest quarters."

"What?"
 

Damn. This woman must have high-blood pressure. The vein in her throat pulsed so hard it caused the hair against her neck to sway in rhythm. Maybe he should lead her to a chair and try to get her to calm down before she keeled over.

“I thought you were just checking the house out. I mean...Irene said I had six weeks. She didn’t mention you were moving in before that six weeks was up. What the hell. Do you plan on moving in today?" That was not the voice of Sam. That demonic voice belonged in a fiery pit.

This woman was moodier than anyone he’d ever met. Given an opportunity, she’d most likely rip him to shreds with her candy-colored nails. She was starting to resemble a cat, which was far from sexy in his eyes.
 

“I thought that was the arrangement you had with the Marshalls. You continued to stay on while they were in town. You all stayed in the house...together, right? That’s what the Marshalls told me."

She balled her fists. “Yeah, but that was the Marshalls. I don't know you."

Fair enough. He had a sneaking suspicion he’d yet to meet all the women trapped inside
her
body.

HOW DARE HE move in on top of her like this. Without warning. Sam clenched her fists so tightly, her fingernails dug into her palms.

Mazy snickered, and Sam flashed her a bug-eyed stare. Mazy flashed one right back.

Brock said, “Is there an issue, ladies?”
 

Sam turned her attention back to him. He slowly strode toward her.

“You can’t stay here. You can’t. Got it?” She forced her hands open, stiffly splaying all ten digits.

"Might I remind you this is my house?” He lifted a single brow. “I don't mind if you stay on for another six weeks, but you’re free to leave. If you
do
choose to stay, I’m more than willing to bunk in the one room flat below. You may continue to sleep in the room you’re accustomed to."

"Listen, you....“ The redneck in Sam wanted to pick up the nearest breakable and throw it at his head while she screamed, “get the hell out of my house.” But she couldn’t. This wasn’t
her
house.
 

Mazy must have read Sam’s body language, because she grabbed Sam’s arm and gave it a jerk.

"Whatever." Sam turned her back to Brock, so he couldn’t see her Oscar-worthy-eye-roll.
 

This wasn’t happening. It was bad enough she had to move out of the place on short notice, but to be forced to live in the same house with this...this...utterly hot man was taking things too far. For five years. Five long years. She’d kept her life on track. She’d paid off most of her bills and had eliminated a lot of drama from her life. Men brought drama. Sexy men brought the worst kind of drama.
 

She had four gorgeous, exes to prove it. All of them had been beautiful men with sinister tendencies. Pretty on the outside meant ugly on the inside, but she still turned to mush when she saw a pretty outside. She was weak and she knew it. Living in the same house with this man was like asking a recovering alcoholic to sleep in a bar with gallons of whiskey within his reach.
 

She couldn’t allow herself to be put in this position. She barely survived her last boyfriend. She’d been in love and two months pregnant when he’d dumped her, left her cold in under 140 characters. Dropped with no regard after three years of living together. And it wasn’t the first time a guy had broken her heart either, but this one was, by far, the worst breakup of her life. She was convinced her picker was off, way off when it came to guys.

The doctor told her that her miscarriage had nothing to do with her emotional state, but she didn’t believe him. The pregnancy was going fine until her world caved in. She hadn’t planned the pregnancy, but she and her ex had talked about it beforehand, and he said he liked the idea. She thought he was on board for it. He must have just been humoring her. A miscarriage on the heels of a bad breakup left some serious battle scars. Staying away from men was her mode of survival. But how could she stay away from a housemate?

This was NOT fair!

With a loud meow that resembled a howl, Princess darted across the tile floor. Sam could always count on Princess to side with her.

Sam spun back around to see Brock scanning the kitchen with his arms waist-level and extended in an airplane-prepared-for-take-off pose.

Princess meowed again. He jerked his head in her direction. His eyes narrowed, and he continued to search the floor.
 

A bundle of fur zoomed across the hardwoods and crouched under the coffee table. The cat swatted his leg. Brock hopped back with both hands raised like he was under arrest.

A snorting laugh ripped from Mazy.
 

Brock hiked his shoulders toward his ears and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'll return in an hour.”

Princess hissed, and Brock squeaked. Girlie as hell. He escaped through the laundry room.

Sam wished she knew a command to sic Princess on him.

When the door slammed behind him, Sam hopped onto a barstool and faced Mazy. "Can you believe this shit?" She sure couldn’t.

“What? That you got a guard cat?”

“No. That Shrek is moving in.” Mazy didn’t know about the miscarriage. Sam didn’t like thinking about it so she opted not to tell her. All Mazy knew was that Sam had chosen to not date while she got her life back on track. And that’s all she needed to know. But those devastating memories were flooding her mind, causing her hands to tremble, along with every muscle in her belly.

“Relax.” Mazy’s voice was gentle.

Sam drew in a deep breath and held it while she silently counted to ten. Slowly, she exhaled.

Mazy continued, “He said he'd stay in the guest quarters. That's generous. Don't piss him off, or he might kick you out early."

Give her less than six weeks? He better not kick her out early. She had nowhere to go and no money to move with anyway. "He wouldn't dare." The only thing worse than having to live with him, was having to live in her truck.

“Have you signed a new lease agreement? I mean an agreement with Brock.”

"Of course not. I didn't have to sign anything with the Marshalls either. That freaking email was the first mention of
written record
. Why?"

“Sam, don't you see? Legally, he
could
kick you out as far as I can tell."

"You can't evict someone in a matter of hours."

“I beg to differ. If he’s the owner, and there’s no legal documentation stating you can stay here—documentation that
all
concerned parties have signed—I can't imagine the police or judge would have much to view on your behalf. Seems pretty cut and dried. His house. His terms. Think about it—he could claim you're trespassing. Granted, he might not be able to kick you out today, but I doubt it’d take six weeks.”

"Trespassing? That’s ludicrous. He gave me permission to be here. You heard him. You’re my witness."

"He did say that, and I believe he meant it.” Mazy tugged a strand of Sam’s hair. “Don’t get your panties in a wad about it. You should be grateful.
And
be doubly grateful he's willing to let you stay in the master suite while he takes the guest quarters. I know you hate staying down there.”

Sam pondered a moment. She had her phobia of being trapped without fresh air under control. She hadn’t experienced a panic attack in years. Of course, she hadn’t stayed in that hell-hole downstairs in years either, but she believed she could handle it. She knew how to read her own body, and she had medication.
 

"You know... I think I need to be the one staying in the guest quarters. It has a separate entrance, and I’ll be coming home in the wee hours of the morning after gigs. It’d be the considerate thing to do.” Plus, it’d make it easier to hide from him.
 

Mazy shook her head no.

“What? At least I’ll have my privacy down there.” Sam slid off the barstool. “Give me a hand?"

"It’s not a good idea. Just ride things out like he suggested.”

“I’ve made up my mind. You helping or not?”

“Now?"

"Yeah. If we hurry, we can get all my stuff downstairs before he comes back."

"Are you sure? That place sets you off. Don’t you remember?"

Of course she remembered. The last time she’d stayed down there, she’d failed to take her meds and ended up in the ER.
 

Okay, so she didn’t know if she could hack it, but she was sure gonna try. Living in the guest quarters while the owners were in town had been the arrangement made with the Marshalls anyway. Besides, this way, she’d be less likely to have to interact with Brock.
 

Landing in the ER would be better than landing in jail for murder, or worse—sleeping with a man she was trying like hell to avoid.
 

She could handle panic attacks better than another hit to the heart. Too bad she was incapable of sleeping with a guy and not becoming emotionally attached. Abstaining was the only remedy.

Why did she have to be so attracted to him? Why? Maybe the feeling wasn’t mutual. Who was she to assume he wanted to sleep with her anyway. Maybe she was projecting her own desires onto him and misread some of his signals.

Kinda hard to misread an erection.

Okay, okay. She could do stuff to make him not like her. And she already told him she was gay, so there was that.
 

The gay thing would have to buy her some time, time enough to mislead him while she earned some cash and fast. She’d stay in the downstairs apartment and avoid him. Done. She could do this.

She settled her gaze on Mazy. “It’s okay. I have a full bottle of Xanax.”
 

The expression on her friend’s face said “so what and bullshit.” Drinking games. Yep. Mazy was right. Sam was gonna need alcohol and Xanax to make it through the next six weeks.

Brock passed the insect repellent at the hardware store and wondered how hard it would be to make cat repellent.

A frail, feminine voice spoke behind him. “Pardon me, young man.”
 

He chuckled under his breath. To a Brit,
pardon me
implied the speaker had passed gas. Hopefully, the phrase held a different meaning for Americans.

He swallowed his amusement and turned around.

A surprisingly tall elderly woman with bright orange hair leaned on a cane. In a green track suit, silver sequined shoes, and an over abundance of jewelry, she resembled a Christmas tree with a pumpkin topper. One of her blue-veined hands clasped a cane. Her other hand was hidden behind her back. The overhead lights cast such a glare on her glasses, he couldn’t see her eyes.

He said, “May I help you?”
 

She whipped her hidden hand toward him. It clenched a pen with a red plume and a sheet of paper. “Could I have your autograph?"

This aged woman knew of his status as a rugby player? He didn't realize Americans paid attention to rugby.

"Certainly, my dear. How long have you been a rugby fan?"

She wrinkled her nose. "How long have I been a pudgy man?" With a vigorous head shake, her gigantic, turquoise earrings clinked against her spectacles. “What a mean cuss you are."

"No, ma'am. I believe you misunderstood.”
 

The way she looked at him—with rapt attention—reminded him of his grandmother, the most remarkable lady he’d ever known.
 

His chest tightened just thinking about her. She’d lost her battle with heart disease earlier that year, and it’d torn him apart. He hadn’t been able to show it though, not with paparazzi tailing him all hours of the day and night. He’d been forced to wear a brave face in the public eye, while inside he’d crumbled.

The elderly woman stamped her cane against the floor in annoyance.

Adorably feisty. She and his grandmother could have been sisters. He reached out and touched the woman’s arm. “I didn’t call you a pudgy man, love. You’re quite beautiful. I assure you.”

She wiggled her arm, and he removed his hand.

She scoffed. “Quite cuticle? You endure me?” She shoved the paper toward him again. "Sign this, and keep your comments to yourself. You talk funny. I can't understand a damn thing you say."
 

Bossy like his grandmother too. "I'm from Wales. Perhaps that's why you’re having trouble understanding me.”

"Wales?” She drawled the word out into three syllables. “Oh, you mean like Harry, the Prince of Wales? The Queen of England’s naughty grandson who likes to play billiards in the nude?” She gave him a once over and smacked her lips. “Can’t say as I blame him. Everything’s more fun naked.” Her grin widened and pushed her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. “So...you're one of those hoity-toity British boys. That's a pity." With a tsk, tsk, she shook her head, and her earrings rattled once more.

He glanced at the paper in his hand. Bollocks. It was a photo of him helping Sam on the bridge that morning. "Where did you get this?"

"Myrtle gave it to me. She snapped your picture while she was stuck behind you. We're declaring you our new boy toy. We've grown tired of using Ted as our muse.”

"Your new boy toy?”

"Yes. My friends and I adopt a handsome man a month to be our boy toy for our craft projects. I make mouse pads. I must say, I can't wait to roll my mouse all over you. Myrtle makes toilet-seat decals. She’ll enjoy sitting on your—”