I don’t reply as I jerk my arm free and pull my gray hoodie off the arm of the couch. I shrug it on over my tank top, not because I’m cold, but because I suddenly feel all kind of exposed, clearly an unwanted guest in his home.
I mean, I get it.
I barely know the guy, we don’t like each other much, and I’ve invaded his personal space.
Still, it stings a little.
And what does he mean, find someone else to “fix me”?
I don’t need fixing.
Or rather, if I do need fixing, I’m taking care of it by myself. I know what I need, and it’s not to be berated and snapped at by some guy who’s spending the prime of his life fixing the rotting steps of a deserted mansion.
And actually, speaking of that…
“You sure I’m the one who needs fixing?” I ask, reaching down and snatching up my dog, who looks like she doesn’t know quite how to feel about the change in situation.
He snorts. “Sorry. Not engaging.”
“Of course not,” I say. “Much easier to point out other people’s flaws.”
“Oh, so you are aware you have some?” he says sarcastically, looking up at me with a bored expression. “Half the time I’m surprised you’re not polishing your halo.”
I blink. “Yeah. Okay. I’m plenty aware of my flaws, thanks. But at least I can admit that I’m on the run from something.”
That was a guess, but the way his eyes shutter tells me I’m dead on. Noah Maxwell’s a perfectly competent caretaker and it’s not my business who Prescott Walcott chooses to hire to fix up the place, but that’s definitely not the full story on what this guy is doing here.
Noah’s mouth is hard and angry and I know I’ve got exactly zero chance of getting more information, but at least I’ve managed to even the score. If the man wants to growl at me and keep to himself, that’s fine, but he doesn’t get to belittle my very existence in the process.
He doesn’t answer to me, as he reminds me often, but it goes both ways. I’ve got better things to do than try to make nice with a guy who thinks he’s got me all figured out without having a single civil conversation with me.
I saunter out of his little man cave, head held high, and march back to the main house.
“Hey,” he calls after me.
I don’t turn around. I’m a pretty easygoing girl, but I have my limits when it comes to how long I’m content to stay put and let someone take swings at me.
“Hey,” he says again, his voice closer. “Princess.”
I still don’t turn around, though I do bend down to let a squirming Dolly out of my arms. She gives a happy yip and bounds back toward Noah, and I try not to feel betrayed.
“Would you wait,” he growls, right behind me.
Nope.
Firm fingers wrap around my elbow as he pulls me to a halt. “Jesus, Jenny.”
Jenny.
It’s the first time he’s said my name—usually he opts for “princess,” stopping just short of “you there”—and the sound of my name on his lips is delicious, even if it does come out all gruff and irritable.
I flick my eyes up to his, and he drops my arm immediately. “You shouldn’t be walking back alone,” he snaps.
I give him an incredulous look. “Seriously? Who’s going to get me, the fireflies? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“I’m walking you back,” he mutters.
“Don’t be ridiculous. The house is right there,” I say, pointing in the direction of the main house, which is less than a five-minute walk from where we‘re standing.