Fine. I slide off the barstool, turning my back on him. “I’ll go. Better see if my stuff survived the fire, and get my other things from the car.”
“Guest room’s the second door to the right off the stairs. I’ll be gone by tomorrow afternoon,” he grinds out.
I start to answer, but there’s a sudden rattle, a hard slam. I look up in time to see the chair he’d crashed into toppling back into place, and his back as it disappears through the open arched doorway into the rest of the house.
How does this situation just keep getting worse and worse?
I stand there in the kitchen for long moments, heartsick and heartsore, then drift over to the cats and let them sniff my fingers. “Hey, little guys.” I offer a weak smile. “Guess we’re spending the weekend together. Maybe at least you’ll like me.”
One of them meows. Loudly.
As in, so loud it almost hurts, but there’s something about it that startles a laugh from me, especially when the loud one butts up against my hand, followed by the other swarming in for attention.
Suddenly I’m super busy. Two hands, two cats, and if there was a third, I’d be in trouble because they want all the love right now. I spend a few minutes finding soft spots under their jaws. Then that little sweetness right behind their ears that makes them melt.
When Landon’s willing to speak to me again, I’ll have to ask their names.
Thinking of Landon, though, sobers me up. Reminds me I should get moving. I don’t want to piss him off more by coming back to the house late enough to wake him when he’s probably got a busy morning ahead.
I let myself out through the kitchen door and head down the path to the beach house. The flames are completely gone, but the firemen are still moving in and out of the house, probably checking for structural damage. I hope it’s safe to go inside. Doesn’t look like the bedroom or living room where I’d left my things took too much of a hit, though I hope my stuff doesn’t reek like smoke.
My heart sinks just looking at it, even though it isn't mine. The whole place will need big repairs.
I’m trying to figure out who I should talk to for permission to go in, when I overhear two of the firefighters talking.
“Anything we should note on the report?” one of them asks, glancing at his partner, a woman with soot smeared down her cheeks and dotted on her baggy, oversized fire-retardant uniform.
“Nothing important,” she says. “Looks like the fire was started by some brush nearby. Probably another rich asshole who didn’t get the bulletin about clear-cutting with the weather this dry.”
Part of me wants to jump in to defend Landon. He’s not an idiot.
He wouldn’t be so careless. He'd know California is such a wildfire haven, even this close to the ocean. One little spark and a pile of dry leaves is all it takes to burn down half a county. But I keep my mouth shut, duck my head, and slink toward the door.
Why bother? Why do I want to defend a man who hates me, anyway?
If the situation were reversed, he’d throw me to the wolves.
And maybe he'd be justified.
6
Like Pulling a Cat's Tail (Landon)
In the words of my esteemed and late father, “This is some bullshit.”
I don’t know what’s pissing me off more. This entire situation, or the fact that I have multiple options to choose from when defining what, exactly, is pure and utter bullshit that I don’t have time for right now.
Kenna. In my goddamned house. I don’t want her there. I don’t want her alone with the possibility that, no matter what the firefighters or police say, there’s someone prowling around trying to get cute by playing arsonist.
I don’t want the weird feeling that got all knotted and crazy in my chest when I started to come back into the kitchen, watched her getting cozy with Velvet and Mews, and hung back like a soppy idiot. Just staring with her completely oblivious while the cats crawled over her like I’m starting to want to.
No. Fuck no.
I’m not a cat. I don’t need those pretty little hands petting me. Or doing anything else.
And I sure as hell don’t need to be out here at the crack of midnight, kicking through the debris, all that’s left of half my goddamn beach house.
I’m going to need to put some kind of protective covering up. Not that it ever rains a ton this time of year, but there’s still wind, sand, animals, little rich kid shits who like to play with lighters.
I just don’t quite believe the official verdict: no foul play.
Mainly because I keep my turf clean, and there weren’t any bushes planted close enough to the house to cause a fire. With the house half-on, half-off the sandy beach, there’s nothing but grass ringing the backside.
If there was enough loose brush to set a fire, could someone have put it there?
Maybe drunk kids would be that stupid, especially after I’ve chased them away more than once. But something doesn’t feel right.
This might be more than just kids.
Which makes the idea of leaving Kenna here alone even worse.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll brief her. Fill her in on my thoughts, let her know what to do in the event she feels unsafe. Hell, I might not even take my whole team with me to Sonoma.
Maybe it’ll be a good idea to leave one of my guys behind on call. Milah Holly’s not the only one who needs protection.
And if I’m willing to admit it to myself, I care a hell of a lot more about Kenna’s safety than Milah’s.
Whatever happened between us, she’s still Steve’s little sister. And even if I want to murder Steve right now, I'd never let anything happen to Kenna.
I glance back toward the main house. The light’s still on in the upstairs guest bedroom, but I know her. I know her better than I want to admit, and I’d bet she fell asleep with the lights on, probably still fully dressed, a book half over her face.
I see I’m ninety percent right, once I go back to the house and head upstairs. The guest bedroom door hangs open as I pass. I can't not peek inside.
She’s sprawled sideways on the bed on top of the covers, her shorts riding up to expose the slender smoothness of a pale, soft thigh, her shirt twisted in clinging layers against her waist. The overhead lights are on, bright as day. But the book’s not over her face.
It’s underneath her cheek, and I think she just might be drooling on it and ruining the ink.
That weird feeling is back in my chest again. I don’t like it.
I hate it because it comes with the world's worst case of blue balls. I haven't had a woman in months. Too busy. And I can't remember the last time I shoved my raging dick between the legs of a woman worth the fuck.
I whip my eyes off her shorts before I wish they'd burn right through them. Having Kenna Burke a few rooms away is already torture.
It'll be a special kind of hell if I start thinking too hard about my hands on her body, tearing off her panties, taking those pert, teasing tits in both my hands until she whines real sweet.
Fuck!
Sighing, I shift my pants and then lean into the room, just enough to flip the lights off. Then I quietly shut the door and hate-march myself to my bed.
*
I’m up again before the dawn.
Too much trouble sleeping all the way through the night, and my head always seems clearest in the dark hours before the sun comes up.
My morning swim helps. I slip into the cool dark waters, ignoring the throb of my bruised shoulder, pouring everything in my bones into it. I do this every morning it’s warm enough; it’s why I built my house on the beach, so close to the sand.
I feel more at home in the ocean than I do on land. Fighting the strong pull of the currents keeps me in shape, and suspended underneath the waves with the world submerged into the crash and call of the sea I can feel like...
Like I’m weightless.