The loveseat faced a wall with a flat-screen TV mounted on it, the only new, modern item in the carriage house.
That, and Chloe’s things. Personal things. Domestic things.
Bright yellow daisies stuffed into a mason jar, centered on the table. Bottles of cheap white wine on the counter, taking up most of the space. A candle on the dresser, the wax burned halfway down. Lip gloss, a hair tie, and a magazine on the nightstand. A ridiculous number of toss pillows on the bed, the mix of colors accenting his mother’s quilt.
Doug Donovan, attorney-at-law and old high school friend, wasn’t kidding. Chloe Morgan lived here. She fucking lived here.
She’d recently painted too, leaving the sharp smell of fumes permeating the room despite open windows and Indian summer temperatures outside. And while the fresh white covered up the dinge, no amount of paint could erase the passage of time. It felt as if he’d been gone forever.
And like he just left yesterday.
Because no amount of years, gallons of paint, or suppressing of feelings could erase the memories of this carriage house and that summer. The summer of Chloe. What they did in here, within these four walls. Shared in here. Made in here.
Destroyed in here.
How the hell could she live here?
The bathroom door opened and she walked out, still wrapped in the world’s tiniest, thinnest towel, looking at him with flattened lips and an index finger held up high.
Hold on, she ordered silently with that firm gesture while she opened a dresser drawer and riffled through, grabbing clothes then sashaying back into the bathroom.
Hold on, asshole, the slamming door said.
And she didn’t really sashay, but with those curvy hips and pert ass, it was nonetheless an enjoyable sight. Still enjoyable when she walked back out, wearing gray cotton shorts and a pink tank top trimmed in gray lace. More nightwear than daywear.
A thin strip of tanned skin showed between the low-riding shorts and the rise of her tank top. There wasn’t a bra under that top, either.
Her nipples were having the same reaction to their reunion as his unruly cock, and he once again reminded his body that she was toxic. And a thief.
Of hearts. Of humans. And now, of houses.
“Sit,” he instructed, kicking out the old wooden chair tucked under the table, pointing between it and her. “Talk.”
“Um, no.” Instead, she grabbed a bottle of wine from the small refrigerator, along with a grease-stained paper plate holding two slices of pizza. “I’m not a dog.”
Yanking out the other chair, he turned it and sat backward, unsure whether it would hold his weight. At eighteen, it barely had, and he’d filled out since then, adding twenty pounds of muscle and a few inches in height.
Sitting still was not in his DNA, especially if he was irritated, but there was little floor space for pacing.
“What kind of stunt do you think you’re pulling here, cupcake?”
“Don’t call me that,” she sneered, shooting him side-eye.
“Fine, but the names are only gonna get worse from here. If you can’t answer my questions, cupcake, then pack up your pillows and hit the road. I don’t have time for squatters.”
He’d called her cupcake since the first moment they met. Over Memorial Day weekend when she knocked on Maine Lane’s front door and gave him a batch of homemade white chocolate cherry cupcakes as a high school graduation gift.
They were inseparable after that, though she was one year younger. By Independence Day, she’d given him another gift—a different kind of cherry.
Using her foot to shut the fridge, she laughed. “I’m no squatter, and I’m not pulling a stunt. All legal-like, I assure you, my friend.”
“We’re not friends.”
“No, I guess we’re not,” she murmured, absently popping the cork on the wine as she looked out the window over the sink. The wooden porch swing was beyond, a special spot for them that summer. “Not anymore.”
A summer becoming friends. Confidantes. Lovers. And then . . . more. More that linked them forever.
Until summer’s end, when they became enemies.
Turning away, she offered him wine and, when he declined, filled only one glass. She then leaned back against the counter, her long legs stretched out in front of her, and sipped. Not a fucking care in the world.
“The house was in foreclosure,” she said as if that explained everything.
“That explains exactly nothing.”
“It was for sale, Jameson. I wanted it, so I bought it.”
“And you get everything you want, don’t you, Chloe?”
“No. I actually get very little of what I want.” She reached for a cold piece of pizza. “Good thing, too. Gotta be careful what I wish for. Could’ve made a bad, bad mistake.”
Her long look his way while casually eating pizza made her meaning clear. He was her bad, bad mistake.
“Thought you just got rid of those? Your mistakes?” He scratched at his stubble, two days’ worth of growth itchy on his neck. “Poof. Problem solved. If that doesn’t make it go away, your parents can always throw some money at it. What a life.”
Staring him down, she finally shook her head in seeming disgust. “How do you sleep at night?”
I don’t.
“Peacefully. And rarely alone.” A lie.
Dropping her half-eaten pizza back onto the plate, she took a long sip of wine and watched his hand. Followed it when he stopped scratching his neck and pointed to the door.
“Get the fuck out of here, Chloe.” He was proud of himself. His voice remained even. Unaffected. “You don’t belong here. You never did. You belong in the mansion next door where the walls are lined in gold and not a worry exists. Go back where you came from.”
The harsh statement was as true today as it was a decade ago.
“I own this place. Maine Lane is mine. You’re the one who needs to leave,” she said, her voice calm but her hands shaking. “And you’re good at doing that, aren’t you? Leaving when things get tough?”
“I left because you made it easy for me.” Standing, he shrugged. “Nothing to keep me here.”
Tears filled her eyes, but she turned away before they fell.
And a smidge of regret reared its ugly head at his insensitive words. Until he looked at that antique hope chest. Recalled what he so carefully selected at a boutique downtown then hid inside until the perfect moment to give it to her. A moment that never came.
Was it still hidden inside?
Her back to him, she spoke. “You can go now.” It wasn’t a suggestion.
“I’m meeting with Doug again tomorrow to formally contest the sale. I’ll hire a team of lawyers in the city if I have to. There’s no way Maine Lane was in foreclosure, and my dad would never willingly sell it.”
He stared at the back of her head, her attention again out the window.
“There’s some shady shit going down here, Chloe, and I’ll get to the bottom of it. You’re not gonna fuck me over twice in one lifetime.”
“I didn’t buy this house to fuck you over.”
“Then, why did you buy it?” If the purchase was even legitimate.
He had been sending his father money every month for the last decade. Where it went was a mystery he intended to solve.
“It benefits my business.”