She hit the bottom step. A purplish painted chest used to sit there, but it had gone missing, right along with the antler coatrack and that black shelving thing that was now on the porch holding some plants he hadn’t bought and didn’t want.
Why the hell hadn’t she taken off like she was supposed to? Because she’d latched onto this place. That was the thing about people who’d been raised with money. Their sense of entitlement made them believe they could have whatever they wanted, even when it didn’t belong to them. Like this house. But as much as he wanted to cast Lucy as spoiled, he knew it wasn’t true. She was rock-bottom decent, even if she was screwed up right now.
As she tromped toward the kitchen, her small butt twitched in a pair of weird-looking black shorts that weren’t nearly baggy enough. He wanted her in oversize clothes like those Temple was wearing. Clothes that covered up everything he didn’t want to think about. Instead she wore those black shorts and an ugly gray top with these black leather ties on her shoulders.
As soon as she reached the kitchen, she whirled on him, making the ties twitch. “You had no right to get rid of my food!”
“You had no right to get rid of my furniture, and you shouldn’t be eating that crap.” His mood grew darker as he once again noted the clean counters, now missing, among other things, the ceramic pig dressed like a French waiter.
“Blueberries and lettuce aren’t crap,” she said.
“They weren’t organic.”
“You threw them out because they weren’t organic?”
She was really pissed. Good. As long as he kept her pissed at him, she wouldn’t try to suck him into one of those cozy little chats he used to pretend to hate. He splayed his hand on the counter. Her hair was so black it looked dead, the ratty purple dreadlocks were ridiculous, and her heavily mascaraed eyelashes looked like caterpillars had expired on them. A silver ring pierced one eyebrow; another pierced her nostril. He hoped like hell they were both fakes. And smearing that delicate mouth with ugly brown lipstick was a crime against humanity. But the tattoos bothered him most. That long, slender neck had no business being strangled by a fire-breathing dragon, and the thorns on her upper arm were an abomination, although a few of the blood drops had mercifully flaked off.
“Do you really want to pollute your body with pesticides and chemical fertilizers?” he said.
“Yes!” She jabbed a finger toward the pantry door. “And hand over that key.”
“Not going to happen. She’d bully you into giving it to her.”
“I can stand up to Temple Renshaw.”
He could be a world-class prick when he wanted to, like right now, with his ceramic pig missing and those leather ties twitching on top of her bare shoulders. “You couldn’t even stand up to Ted Beaudine. And he’s the nicest guy in the world, right?”
She was a babe in the woods when it came to dealing with pricks. Her chin shot up, her small jaw jutted, but beneath her bluster, he saw the guilt she still couldn’t shake off. “What do you mean, I couldn’t stand up to him?”
This was exactly the kind of personal conversation he’d told himself he wouldn’t have with her, but he didn’t feel like backing off. “Your aversion to getting married didn’t just hit you on your wedding day. You knew it wasn’t right long before that, but you didn’t have the guts to tell him.”
“I didn’t know it wasn’t right!” she exclaimed.
“Whatever gets you up in the morning.”
“Not eggs and bacon, that’s for sure.”
He gave her his badass sneer, but it wasn’t as effective as usual because he couldn’t take his eyes off those little leather ties. Just one tug …
“I want my food back,” she said.
“It’s in the trash.” He pretended to inspect a broken drawer handle, then eased away from the counter. “I’ll open the pantry whenever you want. Just don’t eat any of your crap around Temple.”
“My crap? You’re the one who thinks Frosted Flakes are antioxidants!”
She had that right. He jerked his head toward the refrigerator. “Help yourself to whatever’s there. We’ll be getting deliveries twice a week. The fruits and vegetables are coming later today.”
“I don’t want her lousy organic food. I want my own.”
He understood the feeling.
Overhead, the treadmill began to run. He told himself not to ask, but … “You don’t happen to have any of your bread stashed away someplace, do you?”
“A fresh loaf of cinnamon raisin where you can’t find it,” she retorted. “Eat your heart out. Oh, wait. You can’t. It’s not organic.”
She stomped outside and slammed the door behind her.
SHE’D LIED ABOUT THE BREAD. She also hadn’t slammed a door since she was fourteen. Both felt really good.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t brought her yellow pad with her, and she’d promised herself she’d write for real today. She wasn’t going back in through the kitchen, so she cut around behind the house and mounted the three steps that led to the deck outside her bedroom. She’d left the sliding doors open to catch the breeze. The screen caught in the track. She gave it an extra nudge and stepped inside.
