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“Teddie,” I repeat. “You seem nice and everything, but you can go now. I prefer to get settled in by myself. Just point me in the direction of my room.” She doesn’t move, so I add, “I’ll call if I need anything.”
Confusion deepens on her face. “What do you mean,go? Where would I go? I live here. Didn’t you read the terms of the rental before booking?”
Surely, I didn’t hear her correctly.
“It says in bold text that we’ll be sharing the house for the duration of your stay.” Her face smooths out into a grin while mine sinks into an expression of horror. “We’ll be great friends, Nate!”
My eyes widen at her use of my name. For some reason, I didn’t think she knew it.
“Now, come on.” She lifts my bag again and walks farther into the house. “I’ll show you which room is yours.” I watch in absolute befuddlement as she turns down the hall.
I’ll be staying inSanta’s Workshop... with a gorgeous, peppy pipsqueak who has rainbows shooting out her ass... for a month.
Forcing down my annoyance, I close my eyes and count to five.
Fuck you, Peter. You’re the worst brother ever.
4
Teddie
Ever since Nate entered his room a few hours ago, he hasn’t come out.
He seemed a little stressed about settling in, so I offered to bring him more cookies—they make everything better. But he didn’t appear excited about that, so I told him I could make a different flavor if he wanted—chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, snickerdoodle… I listed more options, but the door closed before I could finish. Sometimes, the air conditioning causes a stir, so I just shrugged it off. It’s not like Nate shut it in my face while I was talking, right? I mean, that would just be plain rude.
I know he needs time to rest after all the traveling he did today, but I’m anxious to get to know him. Learning about my guests is my favorite part of running a rental house. There are so many things I want to ask him—like where he’s from, what he does for work, what made him take a month-long vacation… But I can’t burst into his room and interrogate him, so I’m waiting at the kitchen table, trying to keep myself busy with the latest thriller I picked up at the bookstore.
When I hear a door open, my head whips up, but the sound doesn’t come from Nate’s room; it’s the front door. Rose walks in, and I deflate a little. I’m happy to see her. She just wasn’t who I was expecting.
“I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow,” I say, closing my book. “Did you forget something?”
She comes over and pulls the seat out across from me. “I promised your grandmother I’d look out for you.”
I nod, thinking back to our earlier conversation. “Yes, I remember.”
“So I need to check out this guest.” She cracks her knuckles and rolls her shoulders back, like a geriatric boxer of some sort.
“But you don’t normally meet my guests,” I point out.
“Your guests don’t normally stay so long. They’re here for the weekend, a week tops. Why does this guy want to stay for a full month? He could be some sorta psycho.” She drops her phone onto the table. “I’ll just take a picture and get a description of him in case we have to submit it to the police for evidence.”
I laugh at the absurdity. “Rose, have you been watching those crime shows again? That stuff doesn’t happen in real life, you know. Besides, he seems normal. A little quiet, maybe. But normal.” Nate’s door finally opens, and I sit taller in my chair. Rose still has her phone out, so I whisper a warning, “Please be civil, Rose.”
“What do you mean?” she questions at her usual volume. “I’m civil. This is civil. We’re just two civil ladies sitting together talking about civil things.”
When Nate steps into the kitchen, he doesn't acknowledge me or Rose. Instead, he makes a beeline for the cabinets and starts opening and closing them.
I jump up and hop over to him. “What’re you looking for? Can I help you?”
He sighs and turns to me. At this angle, under the overhead light, I have a better view of him. I thought he was handsome earlier when he stepped out of his Uber, but now, with a halo of light shining around him, as if he’s some kind of Adonis, I almost swallow my tongue.
His skin is tan with warm undertones, so I know a few days in the Florida sun will make him glow. His hair is dark brown, so dark it’s almost black, and lightly tousled like he’s been running his hands through it. High cheekbones and a five o’clock shadow showcase his sharp jaw. When he leans against the counter, his shirt bunches tightly around his chest and biceps, revealing thick muscles that I’m sure took time to cultivate.
“Cups,” he mutters.
“Hmm?” I ask, blinking out of my trance.
“I’m looking forcups.” His voice has a hard edge to it. A flare in his dark eyes lights up with annoyance at having to repeat himself.
