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But at the rate my kid grew—and colored—it was long-past time for another trip. Plus, Axel wanted to give Morgan a tour of the entirety of our pack’s land during their “camp out” that night, which included my trailer.
And forced me to finally clean that shit.
Probably a good thing, though it was an annoyance.
“I hate that you’re alone out there,” my mom protested.
“We’re not alone.” My nostrils flared as I inhaled a strangely sweet smell.
Was that… citrus?
My nose led me to the kitchen, and my forehead creased when I found a candle burning on the countertop.
What the hell?
Why was someone in my house?
And burning a fucking candle while they were at it?
I peered down at the candle.
Blood Orange.
What kind of weird-ass smell was that?
“I’ve got to go, mom,” I said, cutting her off more rudely than I intended to. “I think I’ve got a squatter in my townhouse. Call you later.”
I hung up without waiting for a response.
The explanation would soften the blow of my assholeness. Not that I wasn’t usually an asshole—I was.
Just not to her.
Or my son.
Everyone else could fuck themselves.
The box of clothes and masterpieces landed on the table, and I shoved my phone in my pocket before I stormed up the stairs.
Whoever was trying to take possession of my house would go in the fucking ground. I didn’t use it, but that didn’t make it their damned property.
I halted on the last stair when I heard something that sounded like…
Vomiting?
My forehead wrinkled.
Nausea clenched my abdomen.
I had a weak stomach, as much as I hated to admit it. Whenever Lucas got the stomach flu, the two of us ended up puking together because I couldn’t fucking take the smell and sound of it.
Hesitation had me stalling.
My squatter was puking?
Why?
I supposed they deserved it, if they were trying to establish my townhouse as their own.
