“I need a quiet place to stay to create my videos and work on my book.”
“And you’re telling me this because …”
“I’ve been following you for the last week.” That came out a little darker and stalkier than she intended. “From a distance.” Nope, that was worse. His eyebrows winged upward. She hurried past it.
“You come here every evening.”
“It’s when I have time to pack and clean.”
“With bags of groceries,” she continued. “And you change here to go swimming. And you leave here in the morning, walk toward those trees, and take your motorcycle to work.”
His eyes took on a steely glint, but he didn’t say anything.
“I know you’re living here, and it’s against The Palms bylaws for someone your age to live here, so they must not know.”
His jaw ticked, and she knew she was right.
She took a deep breath. Here was the point of no return. She’d already admitted to following him to a creepy degree (thank you, choices made while sleep deprived). Might as well continue on with the one-two punch of stalking followed by blackmail.
“Let me stay here with you in the spare bedroom, and I won’t tell anyone that you’re here.”
Her words dropped into the silence between them. They stretched out, growing heavier and more ominous, like an overfilled water balloon on the verge of exploding. She resisted the urge to squirm by holding her back even straighter.
The stakes were too high for her to get squeamish now. She needed this, or she’d never finish her book. Or the videos she needed to hype up her book.
He suddenly stilled. She turned to see someone walking a little dog along the beach.
“Come inside,” he ordered, and ushered her into the house, his hand almost, but not quite, touching the small of her back. Heat radiated from it, and a part of her wanted to lean back into it. The part of her not getting enough sleep, that thought it was a good idea to blackmail this man, obviously.
She nearly rethought the whole plan when her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the bungalow. It was the same floor plan as her grandparents’, but having walls in the same places were where the similarities ended.
Where her grandparents’ bungalow was light and airy and beachy in every sense of the word—with their sheer drapes that fluttered from the breeze of the open windows, their subtle tan and turquoise decorations to imitate the sand and ocean views outside, and the scents of coconut and ocean spray throughout—Asher’s bungalow was dimly-lit and stuffy. Even if the windows were open, the dark wood blinds and heavy drapes would not flutter in the wind. Almost no natural light worked its way into the house. And the stuff, oh the stuff. One might think that with so many boxes, the bungalow would appear empty, but not so. Belongings filled every nook and cranny and available space in the bungalow—everything from wooden tiki men to coconut carvings to stacks and stacks of leather-bound books.
Uncertainty swept through her, and when she looked back at Asher, he must have realized it. This was his trump card. He had a satisfied smirk on his face. One that only solidified her decision to do this. Because despite all…this, it was quiet. And that was enough.
“You can’t stay here,” he said.
“I have to.” She leaned against the back of a damask couch that looked at least thirty years old. Her grandparents had one like it when she was a kid. “I’ll spend most of my time in the guest room. You won’t even know I’m here.”
“Doubtful,” he grumbled. “There’s no bed in the guest room.”
“Then I’ll sleep on the floor. Or I’ll buy an air mattress.”
He rubbed at his head, the first indication she had that she was stressing him out.
“Is this because I had your car towed?” he asked.
“No. But it makes me feel less guilty about it.”
“So if I don’t agree to let you sleep on the floor of my grandpa’s guest bedroom for the next—how long?”
“Two months.”
His eyes narrowed. “For the next two months, you’ll tell Mr. Richardson that I’ve been living here.”
She shrugged. “That pretty much sums it up.”
He closed his eyes and muttered, “I need a drink,” before he headed toward the kitchen.
