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After a few seconds of silence, I decide I’m probably hearing things, and it’s more likely that this place has a raccoon problem, not an issue with undead visitors. Still, I’m sufficiently creeped out, so I turn off the shower and grab a towel. I scrub it over my face and grimace as soon as the dampness hits the fabric, bringing out a mild funk. The last thing I want is to dry myself off with a towel that smells like it sat in the washing machine too long, so my only option is to drip dry.
I make a mental note to see how ancient the washing machine is and whether it needs to be replaced. I have a feeling that list is going to be just as long as the to-do list.
I open the bathroom door and step into the hall. I have to cross the living room to get to the spare bedroom—no way am I sleeping in my deceased grandmother’s bed—and I manage to make it halfway across the living room before a banshee-level scream scares the crap out of me.
It’s not the undead coming to haunt me, though. It’s a woman. An attractive one. Her sandy-blonde hair falls in chaotic spirals to her shoulders. Her ocean-green eyes are wide, lashes coated with mascara, full lips parted in shock. She’s wearing a buttery yellow shirt that almost matches her hair and skinny jeans that highlight her curvy hips and athletic legs. She’s also wearing very impractical heels my sister would probably approve of. My gaze springs back to her still-shocked face. There’s something familiar about her, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“Who the hell are you, and how did you get in here?” I shout at the woman standing between me and the bedroom, where my clothes are. I’m not in the mood for guests or being nice, apparently, based on my volume and my tone.
Her wide-eyed gaze dips down and then springs back up, her cheeks flushing red. “Who the hell are you, and why are you naked?” she yells back.
She doesn’t bother to turn around. Instead she stands there, eyes bouncing between my face and my nakedness. As if I need to be objectified after the hellish day I’ve had.
“Seriously? Are you checking out my junk?”
“It’s right there! How am I not supposed to check it out?” She’s still yelling and turning even redder. At least her face has the decency to show her embarrassment. That still doesn’t explain who she is or what she’s doing here.
I drop a hand to shield my stupid penis, who has decided, regardless of the fact that this woman has broken into my grandmother’s cottage, that we still find her attractive and would like to give her the one-eyed salute. Maybe it’s an anger hard-on. “You could turn around!”
“You could put some clothes on!”
“I can’t! You’re blocking my way to the bedroom!” I bellow.
“Oh. Sorry.” She steps aside, obviously flustered, and finally raises her hand in front of her face.
I stalk past her and notice the gap between her fingers. “Are you still checking me out?”
“You still haven’t told me who you are! For all I know you’re some perv who likes to break into deceased women’s cottages and jerk off in their showers.”
I make a gagging sound and point aggressively at her. “I’m Bee’s grandson, and you’d better not move while I’m putting clothes on, or I’m calling the police.”
“What if I am the police?” she calls after me.
I’m tempted to yell something about showing me her badge, but based on the heels she’s wearing, I’m going to go out on a limb and say she isn’t the police. Besides, if she was, the first thing she would have done was show me her badge. For a moment I consider that I could end up going to jail for stealing money I didn’t take. This day keeps going from bad to worse.
I grab the first pair of shorts I can find—screw the boxers—and jab my feet through the legs. I do up the button and nab a shirt, pulling it over my head as I walk down the hall. I’m still wet, so everything sticks to my skin, but I’m not leaving a random stranger in my grandmother’s living room unattended any longer than necessary. I should have ushered her out the door and made her wait on the porch, but I didn’t want to get that close to her while I was free-balling it and risk getting kicked in the nuts.
When I return to the living room, she’s not standing in the middle of it anymore. Instead she’s over by the credenza, rolling one of my grandmother’s knickknacks between her fingers.
“Hey, that’s not yours to touch. Put it down,” I bark.
She nearly drops it because I startled her, but she manages to recover and sets it down carefully. When she turns to me, her arms are crossed and her eyes are narrowed. Despite her ire, she’s still frustratingly attractive. “You said you were Bee’s grandson. Which one are you?”
