They said their final good-byes and Delaney poured herself a glass of merlot—into a jelly jar, because that’s what she’d found in the cupboard. Sometimes function was more important than style.
Upstairs, the water continued to run and Carl had begun to sing. Loudly. Well, actually sing was kind of a strong word. Caterwauling was more accurate. Like he was trying to wash a wounded pelican down the drain. An unpleasant sound. How long did it take to swap out a faulty showerhead, anyway? She splashed a little more wine into her jelly jar and brought it with her to the stairs.
A sock lay on the first step. Another one five steps higher. Carl certainly had made himself at home. At the top of the creaky steps was a heap of something beige that most definitely had not been there when she’d left. She picked it up, careful not to spill wine on it.
It was a sweater, one of those thick cable-knit sweaters that only fishermen wore. A queasy sort of churning started low in her gut. Something here wasn’t right. She dropped the sweater back onto the shag carpet and took another few steps, pausing outside the bathroom.
The shower ran. Carl caterwauled.
But . . . the caterwauling . . . gurgled. And the water didn’t sound as if it was spraying right down the drain. It sounded . . . like . . . like splashing.
Splashing?
Delaney put her hand on the wooden door and gave it a nudge. It opened a few inches and bumped up against something heavy. She nudged harder and spied a big black duffel bag sitting on the floor. With a final shove, the door flew open. And so did her mouth.
She hadn’t meant to scream so loud.
Heck, she hadn’t meant to scream at all, but that crazy old dude wasn’t fixing her shower. That crazy old dude was in her shower! What the hell? The jelly jar slipped from her shocked fingers and shattered against the black-and-white tile floor, splintering into a thousand sparkly fragments. Wine spewed. Her scream echoed off the baby-blue walls, then so did his.
He yelled back, in obvious surprise, and flailed around behind the frosted glass, arms reaching, body twisting.
Delaney snatched up her pink blow-dryer from the counter and pointed it like a gun. The shower door flew open with a clang of glass and metal. And there stood a man.
A totally naked, totally shocked man.
Brandishing a loofah on a stick.
“What the hell?” he shouted. “Who are you?”
“Who am I?” she screeched. “Who do you think I am, you crazy fuck? What the hell are you doing in my shower?”
Her pulse beat like bongos, erratic and hollow. He was a big guy. A big naked guy, muscular and dripping wet. Her eyes dropped down. She couldn’t help it.
Carl was not at all what she expected. Donna Beckett must have a whole lotta something fabulous hiding under that manatee sweatshirt because this guy was hot. And half Donna’s age.
“Hey!” he shouted, following her gaze. He dropped the loofah and grabbed a paperback novel from the top of the toilet tank. He opened it and covered himself. Sudsy water ran down his arm. “Who are you?”
“I’m De . . . Elaine. Elaine Masters.” Her cheeks burned hot, and not from the steam he’d built up in that shower. She forced her eyes back to his. “I’m your tenant.”
“My . . . my what?” He brushed a bubble of shampoo away from his hazel eyes with a nicely muscled forearm.
“I moved in a few days ago. Didn’t Donna tell you?”
He was staring at her as if she were a rabid dog in need of outmaneuvering, but at the mention of Donna’s name, a look of subtle comprehension seemed to pass over him. “Donna rented this place to you?”
“Yes.”
Crazy Naked Man had the nerve to offer up a chuckle and a hint of lazy smile. He swiped more water away from his face with one hand while holding the book firmly in place with the other. That was her book. She’d just about gotten to the good part and now the pages were drenched and pressed up against his . . . hiccup.
“OK, sweetheart, we seem to have a little situation here,” Naked Man said, “but let me finish this shower, and as soon as I’m dried off we can straighten everything out, OK? Put the blow-dryer down before you electrocute us both.”
Sweetheart? Her ire officially surpassed her surprise and she forgot about her ruined book. “Don’t you OK sweetheart me, you jackass. Get out now or I call the police.” That was a lie. She couldn’t call the police. If she did, her name would be front and center in the news again. Not to mention that little matter of a fraudulent signature on her lease. But he didn’t need to know that.
“I’m soapy,” he said impatiently, as if that should explain everything.
She waved the blow-dryer, aiming at his chest. That very fine chest. “I don’t care if you’re Dopey, Sneezy, and Doc. Your wife rented this place to me and you need to get out of my shower.”
She thought there might be dimples under that scruffy facial hair. Hard to tell, though, because that little bit of smirk was now gone.
“Donna’s not my wife. She’s my mother. And this house isn’t hers to rent. It’s mine.”