Once I got down on my hands and knees, I could see the issue right away. I’d be back at the Rolling Hills in time for lunch with my crew. Maybe I’d invite Sarah to join us, and she could tell us more about this mysterious homeowner. Cassandra’s fiancé, Blake, was some kind of business consultant, I knew. Was his brother too? If so, this man was making a lot more than Blake, and Blake was no slouch. Maybe he was something else. A diplomat. Or a spy. I pictured some James Bond-looking guy dropping the pants of his three-piece suit to settle on the fancy toilet next to me, and that was almost enough to make me laugh at myself.
With the tension largely dissipated, I popped in my headphones and got to work. Normally, I’d listen to one of myclassic lady crooners—I preferred the singer-songwriters from the last century—women my mom introduced me to. Joni Mitchell. Billie Holiday. Or my beloved Dolly Parton. But when I hit play on my music app, my ears were filled with the sound of sea shanties. I grinned. Anyone back home would probably laugh me out of town if they knew I was playing these.
But this music reminded me of the good parts of home. I could almost smell the salt of the ocean. See the weathered faces of the fishermen on the boats down at the docks where Mama used to take me on her days off, back when it was just the two of us. We’d watch those old mariners release their nets, massive fish thudding onto the wet decks.
It took three songs to take things under the sink apart, and I hummed happily through each one, blowing my hair out of my face as I worked.
Then I heard the opening strains ofWellerman.
This one was my favorite. Calvin and I used sing it loud and proud while making dinner, and while Ryan would roll his eyes as he studied at the table, I’d always catch him mouthing along with the words, his sneaker tapping the floor. I couldn’t hum this one. Nor could I sing it lying down under a sink. The job was going fast—I’d only been here twenty minutes, and I was almost done.
I’d blame the music, but it was my fingers that cranked the volume loud into my headphones. My hand that gripped my wrench, turning it into a microphone as I belted the haunting lyrics out at the top of my lungs.
I was so ebulliently distracted that it wasn’t until I sang the last line of the song that I opened my eyes and saw I was no longer alone.
I shrieked as fear ripped through me like lightning.
It wasn’t just a person standing in the doorway to the bathroom. It was a monstrous-looking man—over six feet tallat least, with a wild beard and shaggy hair, wearing nothing but a black robe. And his eyes—hiseyes. They were as furious as a riled ocean, and deep sea green like it too.
And they were fixed on me.
I yanked out my headphones, another cry chasing my thundering heartbeat up my throat. Sarah told me I wouldn’t be in danger. But of course, she hadn't accounted for break-ins.
The wild man’s voice beat my scream by a millisecond.
“Who thefuckare you?” he snarled.
Maybe a normal person would have panicked. But that low, raspy timbre of his voice, the deep anger. The privilege and entitlement of those demanding words—they flipped everything on its head. They wrapped around something deep inside of me, sparking fear into flame.
“Who the fuck amI?” My fingers squeezed so tight around my pipe wrench my knuckles ached. A primal rage had taken over.
Not again, I thought.Never again.
Using all my strength, I hurled the wrench directly at the man’s face.
CHAPTER 3
Beast in the Bathroom
MITCHELL
On instinct, I leaned sideways when the woman let go of the wrench. And thank Christ, because she had an arm on her. The metal tool whirred in the air as it sailed past me, then cracked hard against the marble wall next to my head.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I shouted, my heart clapping. “You could have killed me!”
But the woman, who couldn’t have been much more than five feet, had gone pale. Her arms tensed at her sides. She lifted her tiny, balled fists.
“Stay away from me!” Her voice was surprisingly loud in the enclosed space.
My stomach dropped. I’d wanted to be alarming—it’s why I barged in here. I’d been pissed to discover someone in my house when I’d specifically instructed Sal I was not to be disturbed before noon. By anyone. Ever. Over the six months I’d been here, I’d learned it was the only way I could hope to eke out a few pages on this godforsaken novel.But I didn’t know it was a woman. I didn’t have cameras in here, and I hadn’t bothered to play anything back. I’d just stormed in, pissed as hell.
Except when I opened the door, I’d been stunned to frozen. This woman, who looked like a pin-up dipped in mechanical grease—Marilyn Monroe in coveralls—had been bopping her head to music I couldn’t hear. I was so shocked to see someone so…prettydancing around in my bathroom that for a moment I hadn’t been able to move. Her hair had come loose, little curls falling around her face. Her pointed chin and upturned, slightly crooked nose might have been awkward on someone else, but they only added to her appeal. So did the pink in her cheeks and slight sweat on her forehead. Still, she was in my house. And no matter how pretty she was, she was still not supposed to be in my house. No one was.
I’d reacted poorly.
Now, I couldn’t stop staring at the dark smear streaked across her collarbone, or the way she’d tied her baggy coveralls around her waist, so she wore only a filthy white tank top stretched over her generous chest.
I forced myself to look away from that, appalled at myself for noticing. But her eyes—her striking sapphire eyes—were so wide the whites were visible on all sides.
