Eight thousand miles. That’s how far Grant had traveled to get to this shower.
Seventy-two hours ago he’d been in the hot, sticky jungle having an even hotter, stickier argument with Blake Rockstone—his idiot boss who was none too happy to hear that his coproducer and director of photography was quitting in the middle of a shoot, but maybe Blake should have thought of that before stealing Grant’s girl. The fight ended in a stalemate with Blake threatening to sue him for breach of contract. Too bad Grant couldn’t countersue Blake just for being a douche bag.
After that, Grant had boarded a rickety plane of questionable flight-preparedness in Pampanga, and spent the next horrendous twenty-four hours sardined between two Japanese businessmen, one who snored and drooled like a Saint Bernard, and one who wanted to rest his bald head on Grant’s shoulder.
Twelve hours ago he’d landed in Chicago only to discover his flight to Bell Harbor was canceled because of a blizzard. He managed to score a ride home with a church group generous enough to offer him a spot on their school bus, and spent the final leg of his journey being Saved. So right about now, all he wanted was a long, hot shower and a long, deep sleep.
Meaning that whoever this pissed-off brunette was, whatever deal she’d arranged with his flaky mother, they could talk about it after he’d scrubbed the jungle from his skin and rinsed the shampoo from his hair.
“What do you mean it belongs to you? It can’t belong to you. I just rented it,” said the girl, aiming that pink blow-dryer right at his heart.
If he wasn’t so damn exhausted, he might find that funny. She was holding the thing as if it would protect her. It was a blow-dryer! He nodded at it. “What do you plan to do with that thing, honey? Style me to death?”
“That’s it. I’m calling the police.” She took a step backward, one foot landing in the hallway.
“Wait! Wait. Just wait a second.” The knot of tension he’d carried for days, which had only just begun to wear away, came back with a blunt blow to the sternum. That’s all he needed. The police showing up here before his family even knew he was home. He’d meant to call ahead, but he’d kind of wanted to surprise them. Plus phone reception being what it was over the Pacific Ocean, he hadn’t bothered to try. All things considered, that may have been an oversight on his part. “Please let me rinse off, OK? Calling the cops will just waste everybody’s time, and if Mickey Pinkerton is still the sheriff, he won’t make it out here until Tuesday anyway.”
“Then I’m calling your mother.”
“No!” His voice came out in a burst and the girl’s big blue eyes went bigger still. “Look, please, don’t call my mother. Just. Wait. OK? I’m at a serious disadvantage here, don’t you think? So if you could demonstrate just a little bit of patience, I’d really appreciate that. No one in my family told me they’d rented my house. I thought my brother was living here.”
“That’s pretty hard to believe.” She backed up farther as if preparing to bolt.
“I’ve been out of the country. And my mother is . . . unreliable.” That was the nicest way he could think of to say his mother was a walking disaster in a polyester tracksuit. She was unpredictable, shortsighted, and lacked both impulse control and problem-solving skills. He loved her, of course. She was still his mother, but he’d figured out it was a lot easier to love her if he hardly ever saw her.
The brunette looked him up and down once more, her perusal so thorough he felt partially vulnerable and partially turned on. He might have sucked in his gut just then, when her bright gaze slipped over it. She was cute, and she was blushing. He hadn’t seen a woman blush in a very long time. The paperback in his hand twitched and he pressed it against himself a little more firmly. This would be an inopportune moment for an erection.
She set the blow-dryer down on the white countertop and crossed her arms. “What’s your name?”
“Grant.”
Her chin tilted. “Grant what?”
“Grant Connelly.”
“Ah-hah!” She scooped up the blow-dryer with both hands and pointed it at his chest again. “That’s not my landlady’s last name! Who are you really?” she demanded. Her face scrunched up in what he could only assume was her meanest expression, but it wasn’t remotely effective. She had the face of a homecoming queen, all sparkly eyed and rosy cheeked. In those tight jeans and big red sweater, and the bouncy ponytail on the top of her head, she was about as menacing as a ladybug.
He shook his head, once, slowly. “She got remarried. Donna Beckett is my mother’s name. Is that who you rented this house from?”