Page 8 of The Big Puck

Guilt swamps me because I didn’t prepare this room for habitation by anyone, and it’s unfair to throw her up here as if she were a prisoner in a gothic novel. I studied just enough English lit to know a gothic novel setting when I see one. With a sharp pain threatening to stab me in the back as if my conscience were weaponized, I heave a breath.

“You can fix it up. I’ll pay—”

“Fix it up? I wouldn’t touch one single thing. This room is the stuff fairytales are made of. I adore it. But then I’m a romantic—can you tell?”

“Sure, but I doubt you find dust and peeling wallpaper romantic.” Plus, I’ve heard the windows rattle up here in a strong wind, but no need to mention that. I’ll call the contractor and have him install new windows right away.

“Look at you—all thoughtful and concerned about a little dust. Were you once a marine?”

“In a former life. Or another dimension. Not sure which.”

Her face lights up. “Actual spontaneous conversation. I knew you had it in you.”

I scowl. “I should get going.” I turn and head back down the stairs, talking while I’m moving and trying to shake off the vague sense of feeling insulted by her implication that I lack conversational skills or spontaneity. “Help yourself to whatever you want in the fridge. Go out and buy whatever you don’t find. Leave me the receipts, and I’ll reimburse you.”

When I walk back into the kitchen, I point to the counter near the coffee maker. “There’s the intercom. There’s another one in the living room. Give me your phone, and I’ll type in my number. Text me so I have your number. I’m not sure what time I’ll be home, but I’ll let you know later.” I stop and meet her stare. Her arms are folded across her chest, and I pop my gaze away from the healthy cleavage she’s showing and keep my eyes trained on hers.

She’s not smiling, but I refuse to feel guilty. No one has a right to smile all the time, do they?

Grabbing the old-fashioned glass knob to the back door, I ask, “Anything else?”

“You could stop scowling.” She quirks her mouth and reaches a hand out as if to shake mine. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Spence, and especially looking forward to taking care of Krissy.”

My scowl falters, but I shore it up. “What happened to Mr. Boss-man?”

She laughs, and I don’t bother waiting for her answer. I walk out the door.

Chapter 3

LAINEY

My nerves escalate to a crazy-woman laugh as he walks out the door—I’m pretty sure in total disgust at my lunacy. Yeah, good question. What did happen to my Mr. Boss-man attitude toward him?

Out the window with too long a perusal of his unshaven jaw, the kind that’s so square and firm you want to hold it and rub your cheek against it until it softens. Or that’s what some sicko like me would do because I’m too soft behind my sass. Too much in danger of having my sassy mouth attitude broken down completely by this poor gorgeous man and his plight. Maybe if he weren’t quite so…so…admit it—hunky.

What have you gotten yourself into, Lainey Hall? That man is the hottest, grumpiest, and saddest person I’ve met since…ever.

He’s the exact opposite of Moe. But this is no time to think about my ex-fiancé—may he rot in hell until the Portsmouth Whalers win the Stanley Cup. Okay, that was mean. They could win. They have some good players. They even have a fantastic coach. But they have that crazy owner who only signed Spence for one year.

I predict it’ll be one hell of a year. My new life is off to an astonishing start.

Getting to work in the kitchen, I take stock of what’s there and what’s not and make a list on my phone. Smiling at his abrupt departure, I have no idea why he tugs at me, why I feel a need to help him like I’m on a mission instead of a job—a nanny job at that. I have no business being a nanny. It’s not like I need the money, and I’d planned to take classes.

Also, I have no business thinking of Spence as hot. Even though he is.

Sure, he’s old. But you could say it’s more that I’m young. At least, in years. In my soul, I could be older than he is. I wander around the nice, but too-sterile kitchen, and my mind plots all the accessories I’m planning to bring in. With that salary he’s talking about paying me, it’s the least I can do. Money isn’t one of my problems. Mom saw to that when she left me a trust fund. Small consolation because there’s not a minute that’s gone by that I don’t wish I could trade all the money and everything I have to have my mother back.

However, first, I need to do some damage control and call dad because, dammit, Spence was right about Jason. No way will he be happy about me moving out on him and in with Spence, and God only knows what kind of stink he might put up. He can be a real drama king when he wants to be, and neither he or Spence needs that this season.

Listening to the intercom for a second to the soft hush of baby-breathing, I pull my phone from my bag and dial home. Literally. The icon on my phone is the picture of a house because, yes, pathetically, until last week, I still lived in my childhood home with my dad and little brother.

In my defense, I’d been planning to get married, so there’d been no reason for me to find an apartment, and no way I was moving in with Moe—Maurice Borelli—my former a-hole-bastard fiancé. Also, I’m only twenty-three, so it’s not like I’d overstayed my welcome yet. I figured by the time I was supposed to walk down the aisle, my dad would be ready to say good-riddance—though he would likely still have cried.

But when I drove off with Jason, leaving behind our small hometown in South Carolina to come north for an unknown period of time on an unknown adventure, my dad squinted and pretended he had something in his eyes as he and my kid brother, Peter, waved from the driveway.

Dad picks up the phone on the third ring and sounds gruff when he answers. “Lainey? Is everything all right? How are you? Did you settle in? How’s the weather? Are you cold?” I smile and let him rattle on. You’d think we’ve never been north of the Mason-Dixon line the way he talks. In truth, we’ve been up to Canada for Jason’s hockey tournaments since he was an adolescent and showed promise, though Dad, and especially Mom, never got used to the cold up north or the cold of the rinks. She said the only good thing about going to rinks was that it gave her a chance to wear her big fluffy fake fur coat. Not sure what the heck kind of fur it was supposed to be—some kind of leopard maybe? I swallow the sudden lump in my throat.

Finally, Dad pauses for a breath, so I jump in. “Everything is fantastic—better than I imagined. Portsmouth is charming and historic, though not as much as Charleston and it’s reminiscent. And it’s still warm here—it’s still summer.”