One Day Fiance

Chapter 7

Connor

How did I lose control of this situation so damn quickly? Two hours ago, everything was cool. I woke up, drove out to a storage locker I keep to grab a few personal items, and then swung by a twenty-four-hour big box place to get the other things I need.

I sigh, not sure how this could have happened. Controlling the uncontrollable, predicting the unpredictable, adapting and overcoming is what I do, but I’ve been totally thrown off my game by this five-foot-three redhead with the mouth of a sailor and the impulse control of a toddler on a sugar rush after a night of watching the sun come up.

Frustrated, I grab a bag out of the truck and throw it her way. Thankfully, she catches it, though it doesn’t have anything too important inside. I move lightly, knowing the house has already been set up with most everything I’ll need, but I still like to have my own clothes. Reaching in, I pick up a box and head toward the open door in the small one-car garage.

She doesn’t follow, so when I get to the door, I turn and call out, “You coming? Seems we’ve got some shit to sort out.”

I feel like it gives me some control again, and instead of getting angry, I wait. She rattled me, sure. But I’ve learned that when shit happens, you can’t react like you’re in the toilet bowl. You have to keep your mind going. It’s like chess. You might be forced to sacrifice a pawn to protect your king, but you should always be adjusting and playing several moves ahead.

Sexy Red doesn’t strike me as the type who thinks more than five minutes ahead a lot of the time. Feeling like she’s still got me under her thumb, she slings my bag over her shoulder and comes in, stopping in the doorway to look around. “Helen had pretty wallpaper with flowers in here. What happened to it?”

“Landlord must’ve taken it down,” I answer, looking at the freshly painted white walls. Truthfully, I have no idea what Hunter did to this place after the last owner moved out. I probably won’t even be here long enough to use this kitchen, much less remember it. When another job comes through, I’ll be gone.

She doesn’t need to know that, though. I set the box on the small kitchen table, and she does the same, setting my bag on the table and giving me a look of challenge that’s ruined by a curl that’s escaped her messy bun and hangs down in front of her right eye. It makes her look cute and sweet, two things she definitely is not.

Playing my next move, I walk past her wordlessly, back straight and jaw tight. Outside, I lean against my truck, wondering exactly what the hell I’m doing playing with this girl.

What are you doing, man? No strings, no messiness. You know the drill. You’re too close to a major breakthrough to risk fucking it up with some crazy she-devil who lives next door.

My mind remembers how she felt, both clawing at my back and when she was pinned underneath me, but especially when she was straddling my waist, and my animal side says she’s definitely what I’ve been missing. She’s not cute and sweet but instead fiery and sexy . . . a very appealing combination to me.

Which means I should climb in the truck and drive away. There’s nothing I need in the house, and even if there were, Hunter could get it for me later. I consider it carefully. I could leave, forget about the laptop, forget about the redhead, and stay on mission.

But I’m intrigued. And attracted. And maybe a tiny bit guilty, the littlest shred of remorse. I didn’t mean to put her in a bad spot. I just needed a bag, and hers was right there for the grabbing.

And I do know where the laptop is, or more like who has it. Getting it back from JP won’t be easy, but I can probably figure something out.

I pick up the last bags from the store, steeling myself. I might see life as a chess game, but I’m also smart enough to know I’m not half as in control as I want to be. I know I’m going to need every bit of skill I possess to navigate this conversation. About the laptop . . . and about my mother.

I carry the bags inside, where my neighbor has helped herself to a box, unpacking my few personal items. “That’s none of your business,” I snap, setting my bag on top of the one she’s trying to unload and effectively pushing her out of the way with the movement.

“Ooh, yeah . . . I’m really gonna damage these,” she says, pulling out an old Rubik’s cube I fidget with when I need to go all Zen and think about things. She picks up the other item she’s pulled out—an oversized insulated coffee mug that keeps my lifeblood hot for hours. Turning the mug in her hand, she reads the words, “I might look calm. But in my head, I’ve killed you seven times.” She smiles like it’s funny and not the damn truth. Hunter gave it to me after a rough job, and it’s a favorite. “Jeez, I’m engaged to Mr. Sunshine, aren’t I?”