Harrison didn’t care how weird things might get; he wasn’t leaving this house. For one, he felt he needed this as much as she claimed to. For two, he had nowhere to go. And for three, he was a bath guy, and this bathroom was amazing.
No matter where he was in the world, he liked nothing better than a good, long soak at the end of the day. Sometimes it was an ice bath, like after that tournament in Florida where he’d almost sweat to death. Sometimes it was an Epsom salt soak—the grind of playing golf on tour was taking a toll on his aging body. And sometimes, like tonight, it was to have some much-needed time to relax and maybe figure out what in the hell he was going to do now. How did a woman appear like Santa’s helper to ruin his two weeks, looking weirdly cute wrapped in the thickest bathrobe he’d ever seen?
The tub was full, the bubbles on point, and Harrison stepped in, sinking into the warmth. This bathtub was one of those extradeep, extralong numbers with a bath pillow and a bamboo bath caddy that could hold a tablet, phone, soaps and lotions, and bonus: a beer bottle. There was a selection of fragrant bath bombs to choose from, bath oils, and facial wraps. The view out the bath window, if one was brave enough (he was)to forgo the use of the shades, was of the lake. On a cold winter’s day, was there anything more luxurious than a hot bath with a view? Harrison Neely didn’t think so.
He sank as low as he could into the fragrant and sudsy goodness. He gazed at the tiny Christmas tree standing on the corner of the tub. Very festive. And here he’d been thinking he’d pass another Christmas alone, with none of the holiday spirit to cheer him up. The whole house and surrounding outdoors were decorated in Christmas themes. He should not have been surprised that Christmas music had suddenly and loudly piped in from some mysterious north pole connection.
Harrison had flown into Dallas this morning from Washington, D.C., where he’d been to meet with a sponsor. The day was delightfully gray and misty, with the radio broadcast predicting an unusually wet and cold month. He’d discovered that even facing his fiftieth birthday as a beat-up bachelor in a few weeks, he could still get in the mood for Christmas.
The drive was longer than he’d anticipated, through some fairly dense suburban buildup, then easing into rolling hills covered in oaks and pecan trees. When he turned on the county road that would take him to the rental, he passed through a town with a small strip of businesses, including a general store and a Whataburger. He’d pulled in, figuring he’d better at least pick up some basic provisions. He didn’t want to try and drive these wet roads at night. That was apparently something that happened when you were about to turn fifty: you didn’t want to drive at night.
He picked up a few things, mostly junk, and carried on to the house, pulling up to the electric iron gate. He punched in the code (the very unsecure 1-2-3-4), waited for it to slowly slide open and let him through, then drove down the curving drive to the house through strings of Christmas lights.
The house was truly spectacular, a mix of Spanish influence with modern farmhouse. It looked as pretty as the pictures on the vacationhome rental site, the sort of house that would grace the covers of magazines dedicated to fine homes and furnishings. It had massive windows and iron doors, a tiled roof, and a Saltillo tile porch. The house faced the lake, and when he walked in, he’d been taken by the soaring ceilings and the wall of windows and sliding-glass doors through which he could see a multilevel deck and patio. He could even see a boat slip and small motorboat a little farther down.
Best of all was the Christmas decor and massive tree in the living area. It had to be twenty feet tall. For a guy who generally spent Christmas in a hotel, he’d felt strangely sentimental and a little homesick. But that didn’t make sense—he’d grown up in a big house in Los Angeles as an only child with two distant parents. It wasn’t as if there were some great family tradition he was missing.
Harrison hadn’t checked out the full house when he’d come in, mainly because his knee ached, he was starving, and he needed to unload the car and then park it somewhere. He went into the state-of-the-art kitchen with his few purchases—a sandwich, some chips, a six-pack of beer, and Reese’s peanut butter cups, because why not? He placed those things on a marble bar as big as a raft, next to a bowl of welcome fruit, and opened the fridge.
It was stocked with some essentials. He nosed around, making a mental list of things he might need to get. Then he got his things in from the car, dropped them in the mudroom, and parked his rental. He decided he was too hungry to do anything else. He’d just taken a healthy bite of his sandwich when he heard something that sounded like a door opening or closing, and the next thing he knew, a woman was in the kitchen, smelling of lavender and roses. Given that no one was supposed to be here, he had immediately assumed she was a maid who was taking advantage of the facilities. He didn’t blame her.
Amy Casey was not a maid. He sipped his beer, pondering what he was going to do about her. Jesus, he hoped his manager didn’t show upand find her here. He didn’treallythink Clay would track him down all the way to north Texas, but then again, he wouldn’t put anything past him. It was Clay’s job to get him endorsements and other lucrative deals. And he’d done a great job of it, particularly seeing as how Harrison had been off the professional tour the last year because of a car accident. He was a wealthy man, and that was before the inheritance he’d receive one day from his wealthy parents as their only child. When he’d told Clay he wasn’t sure if he wanted to try and get back on tour, Clay had said sure, he understood, that Harrison was almost fifty, and his swing wasn’t what it used to be (Harrison begged to differ), but was he ready to give up his career? Was he ready to watch other players compete on courses where he used to play for a twenty-million-dollar purse?
Harrison didn’t know the answer to any of those questions. But Clay, who was at least ten years younger, made money when Harrison made money, and he was hungry. So he pushed. And frankly, that’s why Harrison had hired him a few years ago. He wanted to be pushed. He wanted to be the best player on the tour. He wasn’t, not by a long shot, but he wanted it.
But that was before the car wreck last winter. He’d gone to dinner with his friend Gary, another professional golfer, after the end of a tournament in Georgia. It was raining, the roads were slick, and Gary had taken a corner too fast. Gary had walked away from the wreck, had finished in the top twenty-five of the field this year. But Harrison had been on the side of the car that crashed into the concrete barrier and wasn’t so lucky. His ankle was broken, his patella fractured, his ligaments torn. It had bumped him off the tour. He’d been in rehab since, working every day to get his strength back. He was mostly healed, but his knee was still tender. He’d played a few rounds of golf, and the torque on his knee from a good swing was painful.
Harrison still had his PGA tour card, thanks to a medical extension. But if he didn’t get back on the tour, he would lose it.
He did want to play again. He’d never known anything but golf—it was in his blood. What he didn’t know, since his accident, was if he wanted to push himself to be there as he stared down the barrel at fifty. He’d had too much time to think during his recovery. How much longer could he reasonably expect to play? He could qualify for the senior tour after his birthday, but did he want to? For years now, Harrison had followed one tour or another around the globe, sometimes winning, sometimes not. And when he wasn’t playing, he was making appearances for his endorsements. He had very little downtime. He didn’t have much of a personal life. He was a rich man, but he had nothing to show for it, other than a two-bedroom apartment in Miami.
He hadn’t seen his parents since the accident, when they’d flown out from California to check on him. But they’d only stayed a couple of days until they convinced themselves he was on the mend and in good hands (if one could consider Clay “good hands”). His dad, the CEO of an electronics company, had to get back to work and his own golf game. His mother was hosting a charity function that weekend and, as she excitedly reported, there would becelebritiesin attendance.
It was fine, it really was. Harrison was a grown-ass man who could take care of himself. And that’s what he was doing now: taking care of himself.
So no, he wasn’t leaving this place until his time was up. Because where would he go? The fact of the matter was, Harrison had no home.
3
From a suite of crazy menopausal dreams, Amy woke with a start just as she was plunged into a dark pool of hot water. She gasped for breath, ripped off her sleep mask, and looked around her. It was a moment before she could place where she was…Right, right, thelake house.
She eased back down onto her sweat-soaked pillow. She couldn’t remember what she was dreaming, other than there was dark water (which was, obviously, another bout of night sweats;thank you, menopause) and Duchess.
Wait. “Duchess?”
She sat up again and looked around the room. Where was her dog? She threw off the covers and stood up, padding around the enormous room in a quick, frantic search for her. The dog couldn’t have gone far—Amy had locked her door last night in case Mr. Neely decided to murder her in her sleep. But then she’d taken her nightly melatonin gummies (twice the recommended dosage), and Duchess had needed to avail herself of the facilities, and she’d opened the door to the small garden off the primary bedroom and let her out. And as the gummies had kicked in, she’d gone back to bed and left the patio door open, hoping some of that cool night air would come in and cool off her body. She’d ceased to care if Mr. Neely murdered her—at least she wouldn’t be hot.
She hurried to the patio door and peered into the small, gated garden. It was hardly bigger than a postage stamp, an area where one was supposed to have coffee or cocktails. No Duchess.
Amy began to panic. Lately, she was doing things here and there that she didn’t remember doing. Like, putting her favorite coffee mug in the box for Goodwill. Or making an appointment for Botox and forgetting it until the dermatology office called and asked if she was coming. She was pretty certain she hadn’t done anything with Duchess that she’d actually forget, but she thought of the large pool outside and imagined her nearly blind old dog walking into it and drowning. She thought of the road outside the gate and imagined Duchess getting smashed by a truck. She picked up the fat bathrobe and put it on with nothing underneath but a pair of panties, and pushed her damp hair from her face as she dashed out of the room, calling for her dog.
At the first window to the deck, she could see the pool. Thank God, Duchess was not in it. She looked in the open hall bath. No Duchess. She raced on, but when she came to the large, sunken living area, she slid to a stop in her bare feet. There was Duchess, safe from danger, sitting in Mr. Neely’s lap, her tail wagging. She was looking away, but she could clearly smell Amy’s sweat-soaked body and began to whimper. Amy could only hope that Mr. Neely couldn’t smell her, too.
He was looking directly at her and taking in her morning appearance, which wasn’t dramatically different from last night’s appearance, she was not going to lie. “I take it you know this dog?” he asked as he stroked Duchess’s head. Duchess rested her head on the arm of the chair with a smile on her mug. There wasn’t much she liked better than a good head stroke.
“That’s Duchess.”
“You didn’t tell me you had a dog with you when we made our agreement.”
