Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

It’s just me and Dolly for the next few weeks.

Oh, and Noah Maxwell.

And his dog.

I feel a little bad for being bitchy about the dog. Yeah, the big guy’s a little intense, and I’m not entirely sure he wasn’t going to eat Dolly or hump her to death, but it wasn’t the Lab I was responding to when I got snippy. It was the way the dog’s owner summed me up in about half a second and decided he didn’t like what he saw.

Fine.

If Noah Maxwell wants the spoiled diva, that’s exactly what he’ll get.

I move away from the window as I take in the bedroom. It’s exactly like I remember, although Mr. Walcott wasn’t lying about the house being in bad shape. The wallpaper’s more off than on, and though everything’s clean, there’s a definite air of disuse about the place.

A quick check of the connected bathroom confirms that there’s running water, but the tub is missing a shower curtain, and the faucet handle on the sink is one good turn away from being detached.

I hear the tap-tap-tap of Dolly’s claws against the floor, the sound she makes when she’s gearing up to jump onto the nearest comfy surface. In this case it’s the bed, and since I know from experience there’s no way her short legs are going to make it up on the first try, I pick her up and place her on the mattress.

The mattress is clean, but now I’m starting to wonder how old it is—and how many bodies have slept there. These are the things you don’t think about as a kid, when you’re half thrilled and half terrified to be away from home.

I make a mental note of things to get on a shopping trip to Baton Rouge, although I’m not exactly looking forward to donning my disguise again.

The auburn wig was fun for about two minutes before it g

ot itchy and hot. Still, the wig was worth every moment of discomfort when I got to the checkout stand of the grocery store and saw that my name was all over the latest issue of every tabloid.

Again.

Shawn Bates’s wife apparently wasn’t satisfied with her thirty seconds of fame and has been talking about her “broken home” to any reporter who will listen.

I don’t doubt for one second that her marriage is a mess.

I just know I had nothing to do with it.

Heavy footsteps are coming up the stairs, and I go to the doorway to let Noah know which room I’m in.

Any guilt I felt about playing the diva card and asking him to carry my stuff fades when I see the ease with which he’s hefting my two huge suitcases up the stairs, his muscles big and bunched, and…oh God. I’m drooling.

Noah pauses at the stop of the stairs. “What are you doing in there?” he snaps.

Let’s review: jerk.

“This is my room,” I say with a deliberately fake smile.

He nods in the opposite direction. “Master bedroom’s down this way.”

“I don’t want the master bedroom,” I say with what I think is admirable patience. “I want this one.”

“Why?”

“Does it matter?” I snap.

Dolly leaps down from the bed, poking her tiny head around the corner to see who I’m talking to before she begins yapping at him.

Good dog.

“Does it have a mute button?” he asks, glaring at Dolly.

I ignore him, stepping aside so he can maneuver my bags into the room. The room feels instantly smaller with him in it.