I give her a smooth once-over, my hand running along my jaw, and reply, “Debatable.”
“Ugh, you’re such an asshole. No wonder no one likes you.”
“Interesting. I have a fan club of over three million people who would challenge you on that statement.”
“They’re fans. They don’t count.”
I take in my home and then say, “I’m pretty sure they do, since they’re the ones who funded this house you’re standing in and helped me earn the Grammy you stole.”
“Matt stole it, not me. I was just . . . there.”
“Is that the story you’re going to tell the cops?”
“I thought you weren’t going to tell the cops,” she says.
“Never promised that. Said we had to talk about options.”
“Well, what are these stupid options you speak of?” she impatiently replies.
“Why don’t you come in farther, set your shirts and puzzles down, and take a seat? Want some coffee?”
“No,” she answers. “You might poison it.”
“With you watching me make it?”
“I don’t know what you have in those coffee pods. They could be pre-poisoned.”
“I see that we’re acting rational. Good to know,” I reply, full of sarcasm. I pick up my coffee and grab some almond creamer from the fridge—yeah, I live in Almond Bay and drink almond creamer. It’s good.
“Never would have seen you as a creamer kind of guy.”
“Oh, I cream a lot,” I say as she takes a seat on an island chair right across from me.
She sets her puzzles and T-shirts down and rolls her eyes. “You’re disgusting.”
“Or honest?”
“Disgusting.” She folds her arms and says, “Now tell me these options so I can get the hell out of here and never return. My skin is starting to feel itchy.”
Can we say dramatic?
But despite that, what are the options? Because right now, I have no idea what I’m doing other than not letting her slip away just yet. Call it the feud with her brother, but having one of Ryland’s sisters in my clutches feels nice . . . like I have a momentary upper hand over this battle I’ve been unwillingly fighting for over a decade. Not to mention, given my lack of an assistant, I feel like I could use her. I have a room full of boxes and letters from fans that need to be answered. It might work out perfectly.
“You want options?” I ask.
“Yes, Jesus, that’s why I’m sitting here.”
Short-tempered. I like it.
I also like the light freckles that dot around her button nose and naturally blushed cheeks.
“Your options are as follows.” I hold up one finger. “I can call the police and turn you in, press full charges, thanks to your confession . . .”
“Going with the scare tactic first. Great. What’s the second option I’ll clearly have to take?”
I hold up a second finger. “You work for me.”
She snorts loud enough for it to echo through my kitchen. “Work for you? Okay. Yeah, that’s going to happen.” She shakes her head. “What’s option three?”
I set my coffee on the counter and place my hands on the marble, my eyes matching up with hers. “There is no option three. That’s it. You get turned in, or you work for me. Take your pick.”
“You can’t do that,” she protests. “I have . . . I have school.”
“Do you? Because last I heard, you failed out this semester, and I was also informed you don’t have a job.”
Her expression falls flat. “Who told you that? Was it Matt?” Muttering to herself, she says, “I’m going to kill him.”
“That’s the reason you’re here, in Almond Bay. No school. No job. No money . . . according to Matt. Seems like you’re in a tough spot.” I take a sip of my coffee before setting it back on the counter, playing the cocky asshole, a role I know very well.
“Yeah, and being the antihero you are, you’re taking full advantage of it.”
“I wouldn’t be in a feud with the Rowleys if I didn’t, would I?” I smile at her, a smile made from sins and tequila.
Her lips twist to the side as she glances away. “What exactly do you want me to do for you? If you say sexual favors, the answer is no. I’d rather bury my head in the jail toilet bowl than get inches within your crotch.”
“Nice visual, but like I said, I could do better. Your pussy is not worth my time.”
“I have a great pussy,” she defends. “You’re not worth my pussy’s time.”
I stare at her, unmoving. She is hot, I’ll give her that. Like I thought earlier, she is way out of Matt’s league. But between her being a Rowley and mouthier than I could be bothered with, it’s a no from me. “Glad you got that off your chest? Are you cheering for yourself on the inside for sticking up for yourself?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I know,” I reply, then move away from the island and down the hall.
“Where are you going?” she calls after me.
“Showing you what I need help with. Follow me if you don’t want to go to jail.”
I feel her hesitate before she grumbles again and traipses down the hallway after me. When I reach my office, I turn toward her, grip the doorknob, and then fling the door open, revealing the disaster.
“What the hell is this?” she asks, taking it all in. Boxes upon boxes are piled up as high as the ceiling while several large, protruding blue mailbags have been dumped along the floor. Files, manila folders, and binders are stacked as tall as me on my desk that all need to be copied, saved to my cloud, and filed. New merchandise is scattered across the floor, waiting for approval. Pictures framing my platinum records lean against the wall, and handwritten lyrics are stacked on my chair, waiting to be copied and saved as well. Not to mention, the computer and printer I purchased that haven’t been opened yet.
“This is just half of it. There’s more in the garage.”
“Jesus,” she mutters, moving forward but stepping on an empty protein wrapper, the crunch causing her to lift her foot to see what she stepped on. “Are you a hoarder?”
“Does the rest of my house look like this?”
“There’s always the one room people don’t know about.” She picks up a red lace bra with her finger and raises her brow at me. I just smirk.
“This happens when you’ve been on tour for a year. Things stack up. Matt was supposed to tackle it all after the tour but was fired before getting his sticky hands on it. Best he didn’t, given the box you brought me.”
“Which, by the way, I don’t think I’m getting enough credit for. I could have stolen those items from Matt and sold them on the black market.”
“Do you even know what the black market is?”
“No . . .” She pauses and flicks the bra to the ground. “But a healthy search on Google would probably help steer me in the right direction.”
“Yeah, that Google search wouldn’t be flagged,” I sarcastically reply. “Also, I am giving you credit for bringing back the Grammy. I gave you two options.”
“You gave me one option, knowing damn well I wasn’t going to turn myself in to the police.”