Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

“Careful,” I say, my voice sugar-sweet as he drops my bags to the floor. “That’s Louis Vuitton.”

His dark brown eyes find me. “No, it’s not.”

I lift my eyebrows in surprise. He’s right. It’s totally not Louis Vuitton. I don’t even know what brand it is—it’s just something I picked up at a generic luggage store—but I’m a little surprised the guy knows what Louis Vuitton is…or isn’t.

I give him a once-over, wondering if there’s more to the guy than muscles and a bad attitude.

“Your dog’s a menace,” he says, giving a disgusted look to the still barking Dolly.

“My dog isn’t out and about mauling strangers,” I say, just as Dolly decides that the guy doesn’t mean us harm and throws herself at his shin in a desperate bid to be picked up.

He glances down in disgust before looking up at me again as though to say, No mauling strangers, huh?

I ignore him as I wave a hand at the bathroom. “The faucet handle’s broken. Can you fix it?”

Noah scratches his cheek, and I get the impression he definitely wants to tell me to go to hell. “I thought you’d be staying in the master bedroom. I got the plumbing working in there.”

“That’s wonderful! I’ll be sure to see about getting you a gold star. But I’m staying in this room, and this faucet handle is broken.”

He looks as if he’s biting the inside of his cheek in an effort to speak politely. “You understand, right, that I work for Walcott, not you?”

“And I’m sure you understand that I’m paying him good money to rent a working house,” I retort.

His jaw works as he crosses his arms and glares at me. I glare back, and he finally sighs and lets his arms drop again. “Will you please pick up your dog so I don’t step on it?”

“Her. Dolly’s a girl, not an it,” I say as I bend down and scoop up my dog, who is now trying to crawl her way up his shin.

“Keep her out of my way,” he says as he goes to the door.

“Wait, what about my sink?” I ask, following him.

“What do you think I’m going to fix it with, my teeth? I need tools, princess,” he says, not looking back as he heads down the hall.

“Why don’t you like me?” I ask, unable to stop the question.

He turns. Walks backward as he responds. “I’m not getting paid to like you. How about we just stay out of each other’s way?”

“That’s not an answer,” I call as he turns right into another room and disappears.

I don’t get one, but then I hear the low drone of a man’s hum, and the tune’s painfully familiar.

Noah Maxwell is quietly humming “Homewrecker.”

And I guess that’s answer enough.

Noah

I found the caretaker’s cottage.

It’s in about the same shape as the main house, which is to say it’s a strong breeze away from crumbling.

Still, the situation’s not completely hopeless. The old caretakers either had some really messed-up priorities or some really awesome ones, depending how you look at it, because decrepit as the place is, there’s a brand-new state-of-the-art refrigerator and, most shocking of all, a satellite TV dish.

No TV—they likely took it when they moved—but I can remedy that easily enough. Ranger’s made himself at home on the bed, not knowing how lucky he is that he’s a dog and is thus blissfully free from the burden of wondering what the hell those nasty stains on the mattress are.

I find a notepad and ballpoint pen in one of the drawers and begin making a list. TV. Mattress. Groceries. Towels. Common sense…

I drop the pen and run my hands over my face. What the hell am I doing here? Am I actually thinking of living in this hovel when I have a fully furnished penthouse waiting for me in Baton Rouge?