Frenemies

“How do you know him? Why haven’t I met him? When did you meet him?” Grandma demanded, pulling back from the curtain.

“We knew each other in college,” I said vaguely. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Is he the guy you were banging for two years?”

“Grandma!” I choked on my own spit and darted away from the window. “I did nothing of the sort!”

She put her hands on her round hips and glared at me. “You most certainly did. I read your journal, and it said so.”

“You read my journal? What the hell?”

“You left it open. I thought it was one of your romance novels. The writing wasn’t up to much, though. You’re no Jane Austen.”

My cheeks flamed bright red. “Okay, we’re done here.”

“Why? Are you going to ask him if you can pick up where you left off?”

“No! I’m going to ask him what the hell he’s doing here.”

“Okay, but I’m opening the window to listen.” She paused. “And don’t forget about the little girl. No cussing.”

I frowned. “I work with kids. I know not to cuss.”

“Hmm.”

I glared at her back for a moment before I opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. The spring air was pleasant, and the flowerpots that were now bustling with greenery showed signs of colorful life in the buds that were growing.

I, however, didn’t care for any of them.

I only cared about the man who’d just done a double-take and was now turning around.

Mason’s eyes widened as they landed on me. He gave me a long, hard look, dragging his gaze from the messy blonde bun on top of my head to the pink polish on my bare toes.

It was a look I felt everywhere—the kind of look where you just knew not an inch of your body had gone unnoticed.

Mason took a step forward before he stopped himself. “Imogen?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” were the first words that came out of my mouth. “Please tell me you work for the removal company.”

He opened his mouth and closed it again, right before his lips tugged up into a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“I’d tell you the feeling is mutual, but it isn’t.”

He smirked. “Some things don’t change. And no, I don’t work for the removal company. I bought this house.” His gaze flicked toward the house behind me. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

“Why would you? It’s not like you ever called me.”

“Are you so lost for words that you’re pretending to be mad over something that happened six years ago?”

Wow, okay, Dr. Phil. No need to psycho-analyze every single word.

Also, yes.

I folded my arms across my chest in defiance. “No, but considering we slept together for two years and I didn’t like you then, I see no reason to like you now.”

His laugh burst out of him, sending annoying goosebumps prickling across my skin. “It’s nice to be welcomed to the neighborhood by such a warm and friendly welcoming committee. If I knew you were coming, I’d have brought cake.”

“I see you’re just as cocky as you always were.”

“You look as beautiful as ever, by the way.”

I pursed my lips. He was a big, fat freakin’ liar. I hadn’t washed my hair in four days, and I knew there were at least three colors of paint on my face, not to mention the paint—fresh and old—that coated my old sweater with a hole in the armpit.

“Daddy.” The little girl came running over with a doll dragging on the ground after her. “Daddy, I hungy.”

“Okay, okay. There are snacks in the truck. Do you want to say hi to my friend first?”

The little girl looked up at me with big, blue eyes that were so sweet they could probably compel an entire army to do her bidding. And that was before you considered her darling dimples and little bow lips.

Never mind the doll she was dragging. I was pretty sure she, herself, was a doll.

She stared at me for a long moment, then turned back to Mason. “No. I hungy.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop laughing. Considering I ran grandma’s art store and held a ceramic painting class for kids between the ages of five and ten every Saturday morning, I was totally used to their ability to get straight to the point without giving a damn what adults thought.

Mason looked at me with a wry smile. “Sorry. We’re working on her manners.”

“She’s hungry. I get it. I’d pick snacks over people, too.” I shrugged. “I have to get back inside anyway. I just wanted to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me.”

“Not today, Picasso.” He winked and turned away before I could say another word.

Goddamn it.

I’d hated it when he’d called me Picasso. One of the first times we met, I’d been sketching a squirrel, but I’d had trouble with its eyes. I’d already worked on it for three days, and when I’d showed him, he’d insisted they were level.