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A loud crash sounds from somewhere inside my house, and it’s like someone threw a bucket of cold water over my head. What the hell is wrong with me? Am I seriously standing on my front porch all calm and quiet and compliant because of Eric? Did I really just let a man make me feel all warm and fuzzy and girly?
I immediately jerk out of Eric’s hold and take a few deep breaths, remembering who I am. I am not a woman who needs to be saved by a man. I am not a woman whose heart goes all aflutter when a hot guy shows her attention. Especially a hot guy like Eric, with his annoying flirting and boy-next-door charm. I hate the boy next door. I married the boy next door and look where that got me: In debt and completely fucked, and not in the good way.
With my head held high, I march into my house and try not to start screaming again or break down when I see the deputies carelessly pawing through my things, taking inventory and writing shit down on their clipboards as they go.
I hear a low whistle from behind me and realize Eric followed me into the house. I suddenly feel self-conscious about my things, and I don’t know why. My love for antiques wasn’t something I was born with. It showed up in my life at a time when I needed something to make me happy. I couldn’t rescue myself, so I rescued things. Lots and lots of things that people sold at flea markets and garage sales, throwing them away for pennies, not understanding that with a little love and polish they could be amazing and beautiful and worth something. You just had to take the time to appreciate them.
My home is filled with beautiful things with value that no one appreciated, and I hate the idea that this annoying man who does nothing but piss me off is looking at everything and judging me.
“If you say one word about me being a hoarder I will—”
“Chop off my balls,” he interrupts. “Yep. Got it. Wasn’t about to say that anyway. You have a lot of beautiful things.”
I turn away from the chaos happening in front of me to put my hands on my hips and look at Eric, fully expecting to see a sarcastic smirk on his face. Color me surprised to see nothing but appreciation in his features as he looks around—not even a hint of disgust on his face when he sees that there’s barely any room to walk through my living room with all the antique clocks and paintings and knickknacks piled everywhere.
“Excuse me, gentlemen . . . ?” Eric calls out to the deputies.
They all pause and look up at him, and I watch him give them a dazzling smile, which makes me roll my eyes. Seriously, does he think that’s actually going to work?
“If you guys don’t mind, I think we’ve got it from here. Ariel would like a few minutes alone to gather her belongings, and it would help relieve some of the stress from this situation if she could pack up what she needs without people crowding her,” he explains in a soft, kind voice.
“No problem. We’ll be right outside if you need any assistance. We’ll give you fifteen minutes,” one of the deputies replies with a nod.
And just like that, they all put down their clipboards and give me a wide berth as they walk past us and out the front door. My mouth is still dropped open in annoyed shock when a few seconds later, Eric and I are alone in the house, and I look up to find him smiling at me.
“See? You catch more flies with honey.”
“Fuck off,” I grumble, which makes him chuckle.
I turn away from him just so I don’t have to look at his annoying smile and those ridiculous dimples.
I walk through my living room, stopping in the doorway to my kitchen, wondering how in the hell I’m going to decide what “personal items” I can take with me. Everything in this house is personal to me. How am I supposed to just pack up my life in a few small boxes and leave and never see any of these things again?
“Don’t think about it. Just grab what you can. The most important things that you absolutely cannot live without for the next few days. We’ll make some calls and we’ll get this sorted out, I promise,” Eric says quietly from right behind me.
Why does this guy have to be the voice of reason right now? Why does his deep, raspy voice calm me down and make me immediately believe what he’s saying? I don’t like it when he’s being nice and sweet. He’s much easier for me to handle when he’s being a man whore, staring at my tits and making lewd comments.
