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He considered it for a moment. “Nah. Think I’ll call you Duchess.”
“But I’m not a?—”
“So what I don’t understand is what you’re doin’ at my place. Some guy named Jeremy is supposed to stay with me.”
Another huff that I schooled into a sigh, and I gave up my argument for the sake of moving on. “I’m not sure. I was given this address by the aunt who assigned everyone rooms.”
“Julie.”
“Yes, that’s right. But I thought I was staying with Cass’s aunt Linda, not...” A bull rider.
One of his brows arched when I didn’t finish, but he didn’t comment. “Linda’s my mom, but she doesn’t live here. Must have been a mix-up. Don’t worry—we’ll get it sorted out. I mean, unless you want to stay here.” He gave me a smirk so salacious, something shivered deep in my belly at the sight. “I think I could be accommodating. Never hooked up with a duchess before.”
The shiver turned to ash. What an unmitigated arse. A very hot, unmitigated arse. “As lovely as that sounds, I think I’ll pass.”
He shrugged his massive shoulders and pushed off the rail. “Suit yourself. Come on in. Just need to shower off. Mama’d never let me hear the end of it if I showed up like this. ‘Specially with a duchess present.” Remy pulled open the screen door and let it close behind him with a crack of wood against the threshold. “Make yourself at home,” he said over his shoulder.
I blinked at the screen, unsure what to do. He’d invited me to follow him—barely—but I found myself concerned with what I’d find inside. Furniture made out of antlers, perhaps. Dead animals with lifeless eyes on the walls. Or a different sort of animal—the half-naked male who’d just propositioned me.
None of it sounded enticing, not by admittance, at least. But I needed to change my shoes to something more appropriate, and getting on my knees to rummage in my suitcase here on the dirty patio wasn’t an option. So I rolled my bags inside, stopping just inside the door to take a moment and battle the impulse to walk right back out.
2
that arsehole
JESSA
The patio was cleaner.
I wasn’t sure where to look first. Clothes had been discarded on nearly every article of furniture, all of which had seen better days, and those days were decades gone. The layer of dust on every surface was so thick, it could have supported weight. On assessment, the sofa was my best option, but when I moved to take a step in that direction, I nearly took a tumble over one of three pairs of work boots scattered haphazardly on the hardwood.
Gingerly, I made my way to the sofa, nudging boots out of the way with the toe of my shoe. A rogue pair stuck out from under the coffee table, leaving me wondering how many pairs of the same boots one man could need as I kicked them farther under so I wouldn’t trip again.
As I opened my suitcase in search of flats, I listened to the shower run, the slaps and sounds of runoff as he washed his hair maybe or lowered his arm. His voice startled me, floating out from the loo as he sang a song about a whiskey river in a husky baritone. I stilled.
What the blazes is he?
He kept on singing while I found my shoes and slipped them on, careful not to let my bare feet touch the ground. And I realized I had a second problem. These trousers were too long for flats, which meant I either needed to change or put my heels back on.
I glanced at the door that separated us, weighing my options. I could be quick, wouldn’t even have to take off my shoes again. A pair of tailored shorts sat on top of my other clothes, and I took it as a sign.
With my eyes locked on the bathroom door and ears sharp, my hands flew, unzipping and dropping my trousers, shorts in hand before they hit the ground. One leg in. The shower squeaked.
“Shit.” I hissed, stuffing the other leg in and tugging them over my bum, my heart slowing as I zipped them.
Proudly and with great relief, I packed up again, fitting my heels in without trouble. But just as I reached to close my suitcase, I heard a flap of plastic followed by a quartet of nails clattering on the hardwood. My eyes snapped to the hallway, and out shot a massive, slobbering, very enthusiastic boxer. And it was heading straight for me.
Without thinking, I backed away as the beast hopped onto the sofa, somehow finding the space to run in wild circles with mad eyes and a dribbling mouth. But there was no escape—the coffee table hit me in the backs of my knees, and I went down like a stone.
With that, my defenses were gone.
I hit the ground with a thud, and the beast climbed into my lap, its sopping tongue seeking skin to bathe. Hands in front of me, I squeaked and laughed through the slight fear of being mauled. But I couldn’t push the animal off with the two of us wedged between the sofa and the table.
“Beau!” Remy yelled. “Goddammit, Beau—comere, you dumb sonofabitch.”
Just like that, the dog disappeared. I cracked an eyelid to catch Remy dragging Beau away by the collar with one hand, attempting to hang on to his towel with the other. Unsuccessfully, I might add—his bare backside was on full display. My head cocked like a bird. How could a backside be both round and square? It made no logical sense, and yet there it was, simultaneously ridiculous and fundamentally perfect.
Beau twisted like a fish on a hook, but Remy couldn’t hang onto him.
