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“That guy staring out at us. Is he your boyfriend?”
“No,” she said, holding firm to the doorknob and pretending that Simon and the weird girl didn’t exist.
Simon knocked on the window and waved.
So much for pretending Simon the Mooch away. She tried to smile.
“Well, he’s waving at us. And he’s in your place. Thisisyour house, right?”
“I’m actually renting it so not technically, but, yes, I live here,” she said, turning toward her ex-boyfriend. She shot poison arrows out of her eyes at him. Not for real, of course. But if she’d had the ability, she might have used it.
She hadn’t wanted Simon to know anything about the Henry Department Store thing.
Yet.
Of course, Simon would find out when he saw her in the media, but she really wanted to get him out of her life—and off her couch—before he learned she’d become the centerpiece of a multimillion-dollar campaign. Who wanted the headache of Simon, his puppy-dog eyes, and sad-sack stories of someone ripping him off facing her every time she turned around? Oh, and his palm out, too.
“So?”
She glanced at Brennan, who seemed out of place against the sagging rail of her porch steps and the scraggly grass creeping over the cracked sidewalk. Mr. Ledbetter, the guy who owned the duplex, had had surgery and hadn’t been able to do any repairs, much less weed eating. The whole neighborhood still showed the effects of the late fall hurricane like a dry-rotted badge. So, Brennan standing here in his fancy charcoal wool coat, dark pants, and shiny shoes looked like a prince who’d stumbled upon a broken-down duplex in a questionable area of midtown to save the poor, clueless wench.
Well, she wasn’t a wench or clueless.
Even if he did look sorta yummy for a gripe-ass.
“That’s an old friend. Who is leaving. Now,” she said loud enough for Simon to hear. The curtains swished closed. “He’s worn out his welcome today. So, he’s leaving. Now.”
Brennan shoved his sunglasses into the coat pocket and looked at where the curtains had swished closed. “He’s refusing to leave?”
“Not that it’s really any of your business, but no. He understands that he’sleaving right now,” she said again loudly, to emphasize the point.
Brennan’s lip quirked. “You’re fired up, aren’t you?”
“Does that amuse you?” she asked, trying for some inner control. She needed to get Brennan off her stoop and Cookie Dreadlocks and Simon out of her house. Then she could eat a Lean Cuisine in peace. In exactly that order. “Doesn’t matter. Just hand me the contract and schedule.”
Brennan didn’t budge. Just stared hard at the window where the curtains had started fluttering again. “Do you need some help convincing him?”
“No, I’m pretty sure he’s going. For good.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“You don’t have to be. I don’t need your help.”
“I’m not sure you don’t.” He beckoned at the window with one finger.
The doorknob wiggled in her hand. She clamped down on it, but even though she weighed the same as Simon, he had that whole manly arm-strength going for him. Brennan caught her before she stumbled back into the yawn of the open door.
“What’s up?” Simon said, scratching his head and looking very much at home. He’d tossed away his standard slouch for some puffed-up chest posturing.
“Are you giving Mary Paige a hard time?” Brennan folded his arms across his chest, which seemed to poke holes in Simon’s defensive pose. Mary Paige could almost hear the strains of the theme song fromHigh Noonin the late-afternoon chill.
“Why would I give her a hard time?” Simon shrugged.
“She said you’re leaving. You’ve worn out your welcome. You don’t seem to be moving in that direction.”
Simon shrugged again. “Mary Paige got a little ruffled, but that’s Mary Paige for you. A sweetheart of a girl. She didn’t mean—”
“The hell I didn’t.” She poked Simon in the chest. “I want you and Cookie out.”
