Locked Door (Rocky Start Romance #3)

1. Cat

1

Cat

Checking In

I hobble back down the long wooden steps from the front door of the beach house to the carport beneath, lugging my suitcase that feels like it’s doubled in weight since I went up these same stairs less than five minutes ago.

The code the owner gave me for the front door isn’t working, and I’d much rather await his response in my car where I can at least enjoy the air conditioner.

It’s so humid here, I feel like wet sponges are expanding in my lungs. I know this is normal for the beach, but somehow, I always forget between visits to the coast. It takes me a few days to adjust.

I’m sitting behind the wheel of my parked car with my dress hiked up, my legs spread, and an air vent aimed directly at my freshly waxed, bikini-ready, juice box—eww, no! That’s what Asshole Aiden called it. Why the hell did I have to think of him right now?

Probably because the last time I was this pissed off and miserable, it was his fault. Or maybe I’m having a heat stroke.

A car pulls onto the driveway right next to me. Oh, I guess the owner drove over to troubleshoot the lock for me in person. Now, that’s service.

I close my legs, tug my hem back down my thighs, and hop out of my car, waiting for him to do the same—and hoping he couldn’t tell from my gyrations in the driver’s seat that I’d been trying to air dry my thong.

The young man who steps out is nowhere near old enough to be the owner of this vacation rental. I mean, sure, there are plenty of tech bros making bank at ridiculously young ages, but if this guy’s name is Harold, I’ll eat a mosquito. Probably a Dylan or a Ryder or a Tyler, definitely something with a y in it.

He radiates trendy-guy-with-a-y-in-his-name vibes, wearing a t-shirt with an obscure neon blob on the front. Maybe it has some underground meaning. Or maybe it’s just a weird random design that he thought looked cool.

Honestly, he’s attractive enough that no one is going to question his fashion choices or probably any of his other choices, and something about that pisses me off. I take a cleansing breath and remind myself that my bad mood has nothing to do with this stranger.

“Hi,” I say.

He looks me up and down. “Hey.”

Then he leans into the backseat of his car and retrieves several bags of groceries.

Ah, I see what’s happening. He’s at the wrong address.

“Oh, I didn’t order any groceries,” I say.

“Huh. Neither did I.” He heads for the stairs.

“Wait. You don’t understand what I’m saying.”

Without waiting for the rest of my explanation, he starts climbing. Fine. Let him learn the hard way.

I follow him up.

When we reach the door, he readjusts the bags hanging from one of his wrists and extends his hand toward the door. But he doesn’t knock. He enters a code into the keypad.

And it works!

“Hey! How did you get that code?”

“I paid for it.”

What the hell? Hackers are selling the lock codes to vacation rentals on the dark web now? Is nothing sacred anymore? “Well, I hate to break it to you, but that was an illegal transaction.”

“Pretty sure it wasn’t.” He enters the house.

Once again, I follow him. “Listen, I rented this house for the week directly from the owner. I don’t know what shady website you got that code from, but the real owner should be responding to my message any second, and I’ll have no choice but to tell him about you.”

“Speak well of me, please.”

“What is wrong with you? Why aren’t you grabbing your stuff and running out the door? He’s going to call the cops. I might call the cops!”

“I rented this place directly from the owner as well. Looks like you might have your dates wrong.”

“Excuse me! Do I look like someone who would get her dates wrong?”

“How should I know?”

“Are you seriously trying to say you don’t recognize me?”

“Should I?”

I look around the living room. It’s a mess. Sandy shoes are discarded at the edge of the coffee table, the top of which is littered with food wrappers and water bottles. An open backpack slouches on a chair, spilling its contents onto the floor.

Of course, this guy doesn’t follow me. He’s never organized anything in his life.

“I’m Catalina Fairchild, and not to boast, but I’m a fairly well-known organizational influencer.”

“Cool.” He haphazardly shoves water bottles into the fridge. “What organizations do you influence?”

“No. Cat Fairchild Designs is my company. I’m a professional organizer with nearly three million followers! Although I mainly focus on content creation and my product line at this point because there’s hardly time to take on any new organizing projects with all the—”

“Oh, wait!” He snaps his fingers and points at me as if his memory just rebooted. “I do know who you are. My mom watches your show.”

I recoil from the invisible gut punch. “That’s not me.”

It should be me. I absolutely should have my own TV show. And my product line should be expanding with the financial backing of a billionaire investor, and my very tasteful logo should be on rows and rows of shelves in the biggest big-box store in the country.

But things don’t always go the way they should.

“Stop putting that food away. You’re just going to have to bag it up again as soon as the owner gets back to me.”

“Yeah, you really should check your calendar.”

“I don’t need to check my calendar.”

Why hasn’t the owner gotten back to me yet? It’s a Friday evening. For all I know, he might own a dozen beach rentals, and they could all have an unexpected guest squatting in them. The data breach might’ve been widespread. His phone must be going crazy.

Or he could just be at dinner.

I pull out a barstool and sit.

Kylo walks past me to shut the door we left open.

I’m closed up in this house all alone with him now. Just because he looks harmless . . .

“Could you reopen that door, please?”

“No. There are already mosquitos flying around in here.” He slaps his hands together in front of his face, parts them, smiles and nods, and wipes the remnants of whatever he’s squashed onto his jeans.

Disgusting.

“You need to wash your hands before you touch any more of those groceries.”

“And you need to check your calendar.”

“I can assure you, I don’t.”

“You watched my code work to let me in.”

“Yeah, but you got here before me, so when you input your stolen code, it probably deactivated my legitimate code.”

He shakes his head dismissively. “That’s not how the technology works.”

“Oh, you’re an expert on technology, huh?” I pull my phone out and open my calendar to end this stupid argument.

Uhhh . . . okay . . . well, that’s um . . . shit. This is embarrassing.

“Oops. It appears I may have actually made an unprecedented error in my schedule.”

“Damn, if you fucked up, just say that. Admit you made a mistake. You’re not perfect.”

“Okay, that’s enough. You’ve made your point. And yes, I made a mistake. Are you happy now?”

“Why would that make me happy? Listen, I bought way too much salad stuff. If you want to have dinner with me before you head out to a hotel, I’ve got plenty.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I am not staying in a hotel. I cannot endure constant voices in the hallway and the slamming of doors all night long. I’m sorry, but I have had a traumatic few weeks. I need peace and quiet. That’s why I rented this place.”

“Except this isn’t your week. It’s mine.”

“Look, how about I rent you a hotel room instead? And you can have this house next week when I should’ve had it. That gives you two weeks at the beach for the price of one.”

“No deal.”

The gut punch is a one-two this time. “Don’t ever say that phrase to me again.”

He takes out a cutting board and a knife, and begins chopping salad veggies instead of packing up his mess. I just made him an amazing offer, and his response is to slice a cucumber?

“Why are you being a jerk about this?”

“It makes me a jerk to stay in the house that I rented?”

“I offered to compensate you.”

“Not interested. I’m already set up here. And if I’d wanted to stay in a hotel, I would’ve done that from the start. I need peace and quiet this week, too.”

“To do what?”

He waves the knife in the air, gesturing at the living room.

“What, throw your shit all over the place?” I ask.

His sigh is dramatic. So much performative agitation. “Do you see that game console?”

“Yes. And a controller left in the middle of the floor, where it doesn’t belong.”

“That’s my job.”

“Oh, please! Playing video games is not a fucking job!”

“It is if you’re a fucking game tester!” He chops at the cucumber like a hibachi chef—minus the knife skills. “Are you hungry or not?”

I’m clearly going to have to put in more effort if I have any hope of convincing him to give up this house for the week. “Sure. Do you need any help?”

“If you think I’d trust you with a knife right now, you’re crazier than you look.”

Damn. That stings. It must show on my face, because when he looks up at me, he says, “That came out wrong. It’s not your look that comes across as crazy.”

“Is that your idea of an apology?”

He shrugs. “Apologies aren’t my strong suit.”

“Please tell me you washed those tomatoes.”

“Hey, there’s a job I can trust you with.”

“Are you sure you’re not afraid I’ll drown you in the sink?”

“Not entirely, but I’m willing to risk it, for some reason.”

I walk into the kitchen and reach across him for the tomatoes. My arm accidentally brushes against his, freezing us both in place for a moment before we pull away from each other like we’ve touched an open flame.

“What’s your name, game tester?”

“Nash. Nash Nocona.”

“Oh, let me guess, Nash is short for Nashville?”

“Nashua, actually.”

“Does your middle name have a y in it?”

His jaw tightens to keep the quirk of his mouth in check. “Stryker. With a y.”

“I knew it!” I can’t keep my own smile at bay. Not to mention I just had the best idea ever, one that will get him out of this house in no time. My super power is reading people. “So, Nashua Stryker Nocona, how do you feel about a wager?”

“That depends. What are we betting on?”

“If I can guess two more things about you, I get the house, and you go to a hotel.”

“You haven’t guessed the first thing about me yet.”

“I knew your name had a y in it.”

“If you’re a witch, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Too late. You already invited me in.”

“That only applies to vampires.”

“Maybe I’m one of those.”

“Eh, you look more like a witch.” His smile breaks free now.

I turn the sprayer on him, but he flattens his hand against it, sending back-spray all over me instead.

Lightning-fast reflexes. Impressive.

He reaches his other hand between us to turn off the water and says, “For the record, I didn’t invite you in. You just followed me.”

“You left the door open.”

“Do I get three guesses about you?” he asks, wiping his hand on a dish towel.

I shake my head. “There’s nothing in it for you.”

He steps closer to give me the towel. “How about three wishes then?”

“I’m not a genie.”

“Witches can’t grant wishes?”

“Witches can do whatever they want.”

“Until they meet their match.” He hands me a knife to cut the tomatoes.

My hand hardly shakes at all when I take it from him.