She was terrified.
My anger shifted to Sal for going against my direct orders.
And then boomeranged to myself, for being a fucking dick. As usual.
I held my hands out. But I was unable to keep the low anger out of my voice as I said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Of course, she didn’t relax, not one bit. “You just back out slowly,” she said, her voice high and tight. Then, not taking her eyes off me, she fumbled around in that toolbox. She was scared, but not helpless.
“Don’t—” I began, but she’d already reared her arm back.
This time, I caught the thing she threw with a slap to my palm. I looked over to see it was a large metal flashlight.
“I live here,” I said, trying to keep the anger frommy voice. Trying to be reasonable. “You’re inmyhome.” That bit came out in a snarl. Fuck. I lowered the flashlight onto the counter next to the sink. As I did, I caught my own reflection.
I knew I’d let myself go. I was here for a solitary artistic pursuit. What the fuck did it matter how I looked? But I hadn’t exactly examined myself in the mirror recently.
No wonder the woman was scared for her life.
When I looked back at her, that pointed little chin was trembling.
My chest squeezed painfully, my mind suddenly assaulted by an image of my mother keeping me and my older brothers behind her as our asshole father screamed in her face. Mom’s jaw was set, hands clenched.But even as young as I was, and brave as she was, I’d known what that wobbling chin meant.
My anger—now turned squarely on myself—choked me. Pissing people off was one thing. But to make a woman fear for her safety?To have my rage cause tears? It was a line I never crossed—and one I’d just squarely trampled.
“Anita.” I barked. “Who am I?”
“Mitchell William Franklin Harrington,” said Anita.
The woman blinked. It wasn’t enough.
“Who’s the owner of this house?”
“Mitchell William Franklin Harrington.”
Finally, the woman took a breath and closed her eyes. A tear ran down her face, but she fisted it away. “Just because you’re the owner, doesn’t mean you’re not a dangerous asshole.”
I bit down the grimace; the urge to insist I wasn’t dangerous. “You should go,” I said, my voice barely more than a rusty scratch.
“I was called to this house. I was invited inside. You calledme!”
“Like hell I did. I don’t call people like you. That’s Sal’s job.”
I realized how it sounded the moment it came out.People like you. But it was too late to take it back. Besides, it was true. Sal, my assistant, took care of my whole damn life from the top of one of my office towers in Seattle, where I’d left her six months ago. Where I had to return in a month, book or no book.
“No one’s supposed to be here,” I said. It was pathetic, and she knew it.
But at least my idiot words had nudged her back to pissed off instead of scared.
“Buddy. Yourpeoplecalledme. To helpyou. And Blake is nice, so I said yes. Clearly, he got the good personality in the family. But you know what? Forget it. I don’t need this job. Not by a long shot.”
My head reeled. “You know my brother? Did he send you?” I’d told Sal not to contact Blake for anything. He knew I was here. Hell, he was the reason I was here. Blake had carved out a happy life for himself. He’d found his dream woman. Told Dad to fuck off. I think I wanted to enjoy his happiness by proxy. Or leech off it, or something. But Sal knew I only wanted contact on my terms.
The woman began tossing items into her toolbox, loud and hard. “I don’t know how your people found me, and I don’t care.”
Not Blake then. Probably Anita alerting Sal something was off.
I should have said nothing more. I had what I wanted—she was leaving. I should have just let this mouthy, wrench-throwing firecracker pack up and get the hell out so I could go back to my blank fucking page in my bleak fucking pool house office. To write the goddamned novel that wasn’t going to write itself. The novel that was my last chance to prove…what, I still wasn’t sure.
