Why are men so horrible?
But I don’t say anything as I follow him, staying quiet as he checks out the rest of the house.
“Let’s have a look at the garage,” he suggests.
“Sure.” We walk downstairs and out the back door, under a short breezeway that leads to the garage. “There are three bays for vehicles in here. There’s also an extra two acres of raw land for sale next door in case you want extra space for something like a shop.”
“Or a gym.” He nods and walks through the garage. “I like the built-ins. Let’s go upstairs.”
“The entrance is on the outside of the building.” I lead him around the perimeter of the garage to the staircase on the backside. “There’s a one-bedroom apartment up here, complete with a kitchenette.”
And it would be absolutely perfect for my office space.
Or a guest house for my parents when they’re here from Ireland.
He just nods and follows me back outside, then waits for me to lock the apartment before joining me in the kitchen.
“Listen, I have to get back to the city this afternoon,” he says and tucks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. “I have to get Rachel from my parents’ place. But I’d like to come back on Thursday afternoon to keep looking. Do you think any of these places will sell in the next few days?”
“That’s hard to say.” I wish I could come up with the twenty-five grand I need for the down payment on this place. “I can tell you that the homes in this price range don’t move quite as quickly.”
“Good. I just need a couple of more days here before I decide.”
“I can set up showings for Thursday afternoon, and anytime on Friday,” I offer, elated that he didn’t automatically buy this house. It’s by far the best of all of the properties I’ve shown him.
His phone buzzes, he checks it, and then scowls. “I’ll kill her.”
“Do you often think about murdering your wife?”
He blinks up at me, that scowl still on his face. “Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“I’m not married.”
“Girlfriend, then.”
“Rachel is my daughter.” Worry and anger still line his face. “And she’s testing my damn patience.”
His daughter.
This sexy, cocky, arrogant yet endearing man is a father.
He’s distracted as he takes one more look around the house and then starts walking toward the front door.
“I have to get back. But I’ll see you on Thursday.”
“Sure, okay.” He’s leaving. Why does that make me sad? I barely know this man. But I like him. I like him a lot.
He opens the door, pauses, and then hurries back to me, his face full of determination.
He cups my face, tugs the lip I didn’t know I was biting out of my teeth, and swoops down to kiss me.
It’s the kind of kiss that reaches down and makes a girl’s knees weak.
He’s surprisingly gentle but in control.
Determined.
And when he pulls back, he presses those talented lips to my forehead once more.
“Have a good week, Mr. Meyers.”
“Hunter.” He tips my chin up and grins down at me. “My name is Hunter, Maeve.” He winks and then walks away again.
“Thursday,” he tosses over his shoulder, and then the door closes behind him.
“Whoa.” I press my fingertips to my lips and lean on the kitchen counter. “Holy hell, the man can kiss.”
I make my way through the house, turning off lights and making sure the doors and windows are locked.
I love this home. I have since it was built about ten years ago. I’ve daydreamed about it.
And then, last Christmas, I was invited to a cookie exchange here with some friends and got to tour the inside.
It’s everything I always dreamed of and more. That view off the back of the property is what every fiction writer thinks of when crafting a story full of intrigue and mystery.
There should be ghosts walking these cliffs.
Perhaps that’s just my Irish roots talking.
“You have other things to do today,” I remind myself. There’s no time for dillydallying in someone else’s house.
The truth is, I could ask my oldest brother, Kane, for a loan for what I need to buy this house, and he’d give it to me in a heartbeat.
But I don’t think it’s right to ask for help with this sort of thing. I’ll earn it. And, chances are, the house won’t sell before I’m ready to buy anyway.
I close and lock the front door, climb into my car, and take off toward my house. I have just enough time to have a snack before my showing this afternoon.
I have no time for thinking about a man named Hunter, who makes me think about all kinds of sexy things.
“You need more creamer,” Maggie, my only sister, says as she rinses the carton and tosses it into the recycling bin. “You’ve been really moody this week.”