“Didn’t realize Elspeth had a tenant,” I mutter.
“Well,” he says evenly, “perhaps if you’d kept in touch a little better, you’d have figured that out on your own.”
I open my mouth to snap back, then shut it again. Because he’s not wrong. I didn’t keep in touch, and now I’m rooting through a cupboard I also haven’t touched in years. In a house I don’t actually own yet. A house that, apparently, hasn’t been empty the way I thought.
“Let’s try that again.” I straighten. “I’m Elsie Hart, the soon-to-be owner of this house. And you are?”
“Wells Rourke. I was helping Elspeth with the place before she passed. Near the end, she asked me to stay on and keep it standing.”
“And you just . . . did that, then?”
He shrugs. “Someone had to.”
My chest tightens. I may be clueless about some things, but I understand his implication all too well. Someone had to run things after my grandmother died last year, and I didn’t step up.
So yes, I’m grateful for his help. But it seems the man has done his due diligence, and now— “I’m here. So, thank you for caretaking in the meantime, but I’ve got things under control.”
He laughs like I’ve told a joke. I haven’t.
“Yeah, funny,” he says, dragging a hand through his mop of hair. “You want to waltz in, claim the place, and boot me out like I’m some squatter?”
I wince. “Well, you kind of are.”
“I pay utilities.”
“You keep the lights on in a house you don’t own,” I mumble. “Congratulations.”
His jaw tightens. “Look, I don’t know what you were expecting when you rolled up here, but I’m not leaving just because you’ve finally decided to grace Blue Willow with your presence.”
I bristle. “I didn’t roll up here. I was left this house.”
“And yet”—he gestures around him—“I’m the one who’s been keeping it from falling apart.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “That’s admirable. Really. But I’m here now, and this place is mine.”
“Not yet, it’s not. Probate takes time. Paperwork. If you want to make this official, you’ll need more than a last name, an old room with glow-in-the-dark star stickers on the ceiling, and a Lisa Frank diary hidden under the bed.”
I stare at him. “Did you seriously go through my things?”
“I’ve fixed that broken window in your room more times than I can count. Not exactly Sherlock Holmes work.”
I blow out a sharp breath. “Fine. I’ll call Bobby in the morning. He’ll sort it out.”
“You do that.” He nods once, clipped. “In the meantime, don’t burn the place down. I’m staying in the Carriage Suite, should you decide to escalate this into a turf war.”
I frown hard. I hadn’t planned on sharing this house with anyone, least of all a man. I’ve managed twenty-six years without ever living with one, and I don’t intend to start now.
While I contemplate the indignity of it, he studies me. His gaze flicks over the fox mug I’m cradling, then lingers with a sideways glance I immediately interpret as judgment.
“Do you have a problem with my choice of mug?”
“A fox?”
“It’s been my favorite since I was a kid,” I say defensively.
“Interesting,” he says, like it’s the least remarkable thing he’s ever heard.
He turns to leave, and that’s when I realize I’m still perched on the counter, legs dangling, feeling like a little kid he’s stuck in time-out. “Wait,” I call after him.
