“It’ssohuge.” She looked at him sidelong. He didn’t really look like a murderer. And when he took a few steps backward to lean against the counter, she noticed his limp. He was eying her closely, too, she noticed. Sizing her up. Probably assessing how quickly he could take her in a fight. “Okay, Mr. Neely, I am willing to give this a try until we can get it resolved, as long as you stay out of my way and don’t expect me to cook or do anything for you. And you can’t eat my food.”
“What food is yours?”
“All of it.”
“Fair enough. I’m down to try if you don’t expect me to lift any heavy objects or kill spiders.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Amy quickly calculated the cons of this arrangement. Other than the completely crazy idea of sharing this house with a man she did not know, and all the attendant concerns that ought to bring up, and the fact she’d have to kill her own spiders, she didn’t see a downside. Yet. Where the hell was Julie? “My name is Amy, and I have already taken the biggest primary room, and I’m not budging.”
“My name is Harrison, and all I need is a bed and a bathroom.”
“Nice to meet you, Harry.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Amy. And it’s Harrison.” He smiled.
It was a very nice smile now that she was getting used to him.
“So, we’re good?” he asked.
“I mean…I think?”
“Great. I’m—”
Mr. Neely was interrupted by the sudden blaring of Mariah Carey singing “All I Want for Christmas Is You” at full volume all around them. They both yelled with the shock, they both ducked like they thought someone would start shooting, and then just as quickly, they both popped up and began to frantically look around for the source.
“It’s the lights!” Amy shouted.
“What lights?” he shouted back.
“Look!” She pointed at Christmas lights strung across the ceiling. They had just come on with the music. Mr. Neely looked up, his gray-eyed gaze following the cord down across the ceiling, down the side of the door, and disappearing just behind the Christmas tree. He charged in that direction, and after several grunts and flipping of switches (one of which sent the Christmas tree lights into a color-changing spasm), he found a plug and yanked it.
The music stopped. The lights went dark. So did the Christmas tree. “What the actual hell?” he muttered, looking around him.
Amy grabbed a folder on the kitchen bar and opened it. The first paper inside listed all the things that needed to be done when leaving.Please take out all trash and roll trash cans to the main road.Amy paused for a moment, thinking that had to be a quarter mile. She turned the page.We have taken the liberty of installing automatic Christmas lights and music! To adjust the volume…“Here,” she said, waving the paper. “I’ve got it.” She went to the tree as the instructions said, crawled behind the massive thing, found the gizmo that operated the music and lights, found the volume button and tapped it down.
She crawled back out, tightened the sash on her robe, and wondered how much she’d flashed. “It’s automatic, programmed to come on at various intervals. I turned the volume off.”
“Thank you. That was…disturbing.”
“My heart is still pounding,” she agreed.
“You’ve got some tinsel there,” he said, pointing to her face.
Amy pulled a strand that had gotten stuck to the towel wrapped around her head and was hanging down over one eye. She yanked it free.
“I’m going to drive up the road to Whataburger and replace the sandwich I dropped. Can I bring you anything?” he asked as she disentangled another two strands of tinsel from her towel.
“So we’re really doing this?” she asked.
“We’re really doing this until one of us speaks to Julie or Sam, right?” He shrugged.
She put her hands on her hips. “I recommend the double patty. But I’m fine, thank you.” She’d brought a supply of Lean Cuisines, and as good as a burger sounded, she was sticking with her plan for as long as she could stand it. Her goal was to come home completely transformed into the artist she always aspired to be, just in time for Christmas and the contest. And that included losing a few pounds.
Harrison Neely grabbed keys off the counter, gave her a two-finger wave, and went down the hall to the door.
Amy plugged in the lights again and returned to her room, locking the door behind her. Was she insane? Had she lost her mind? Maybe she had, and maybe she’d end up dead at the end of the two weeks, and her children would be orphans—well, not orphans, because there was Ryan—butpracticallyorphans. And she didn’t care, because she was not leaving.
2
