Chapter 7
SEVEN
“Wait, I think he just texted me,” I interrupt Mia as a notification from an unknown number flashes on my phone, which is clipped to my dashboard. Old Betty Bronco doesn’t have any fancy connectivity. I’m lucky she still has working heat.
“What did he say?”
I tap the notification to pull up the message and read it out loud, “Morning, Starling. Yes, I’d very much like to do this again sometime.”
“Hmm.” I can practically hear the gears turning in Mia’s head. “What’re you going to say back?”
“Not sure. A winky face?” I laugh. “I guess just… chat. Be friendly and casual.”
“You’re okay with that? I know you weren’t exactly looking for love on the show, but I kind of assumed you were a relationship girl.”
“It’s the sweet southern accent, isn’t it?” I tease.
“Doesn’t help.”
“Of course I want a grand love one day. The kind people write songs about. But it hasn’t found me yet, and I’m not gonna sit here and cry about it.” I tap the steering wheel. “And I can’t offer anything serious right now. I don’t even know where I’ll be living in six months.”
“That’s true.” She sighs. “And you’ll find your big love. I’m sure some musician is gonna sweep you off your feet, and you’ll have cute little guitar-playing, chorus-belting kids.”
I laugh because the picture is pretty close to what I’ve always imagined for myself. “In the meantime, a hockey-playing distraction sounds all right.”
My navigator tells me to turn right into a gated community. “Hey, I’m almost here. Talk to you later, okay?”
“If you don’t text me in an hour, I’m calling the cops.”
“Quit being dramatic. That’s my job.”
She huffs a breath. “Later.” Then can’t help adding, “Text me,” before ending the call.
I give the guy at the gate the address and my name. He lets me in, telling me Tara has set everything up. After checking my license, he hands me a remote for the gate.
There’s no way a serial killer lives in a neighborhood like this. I’m still shocked I’ll be living in a neighborhood like this. It’s a long way from the double-wide I grew up in. There’s got to be seven bedrooms minimum in these places.
One day, maybe I’ll be able to afford a place like this. Until then, sharing the space with one roommate who’s barely home sounds pretty good.
“Your destination is on your left,” the robotic GPS announces as I pull into an oversized driveway and park.
I tighten my grip on the cracked leather steering wheel and look up at the pristine, sprawling house stretching beyond the frame of my windshield. I can’t wait to send my mama a picture of this place. I can already hear her voice: “Darling, you’ve arrived.”
I click off the engine and shoot Miles a text.
Me:
We doing the whole hockey player last name thing? I like it
I look up as the front door swings open. A stout woman, maybe fifty, bustles out, waving and heading for my truck.
“You must be Summer,” she calls, still a dozen paces away.
My door creaks and then thunks shut as I climb out to meet her. “Tara?”
“That’s me.” She wipes at her nose with a quick sniff. “Oh, I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.”
“I’m glad to be here, ma’am—”
“Ah-choo!” she sneezes, bending at the waist. She fishes a tissue out of her sleeve and blows her nose. “This damn cat has declared war on Zyrtec, and she’s winning.”
I swallow a laugh but can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. “Well, I’m happy to be here to provide backup.”
Tara doesn’t hold back her laugh, her whole body shaking. “I like you. C’mon, let me show you around and introduce you to the general of the opposing forces.”
I give her a playful salute before popping the trunk. I stack my duffel and purse on top of my suitcase and grab my guitar case in my other hand.
She leads me through the front door, then pauses just inside to call, “Pss-pss-pss! Gracie girl, come say hi. Pss-pss-pss!”
A faint jingle grows louder until a blur of orange fur rounds the corner.
Grace, I assume. She’s a tabby with thick fur, and I can’t tell whether it’s all hair or if she’s actually that big.
She practically comes to my knee. Granted, my brother calls me Short-Stack, and at five one, he’s not wrong.
Still, she looks bigger than the average house cat.
I crouch down, holding out my hand so she can sniff me, but she barely gives it a second glance before butting her nose against my palm and snaking her body along my shins.
“Nice to meet you, sweet girl,” I coo, then look up at Tara. “She’s kind of big,” I whisper, as if saying it too loud might make her self-conscious.
“Mac thinks she’s part Maine Coon, but she’s a rescue, so we don’t know for sure. What we do know is I’m highly allergic. We’ve been making do when he travels, but I can’t give her the attention she deserves without breaking out in sneezing fits or hives.”
Mac.
The mystery man.
I’ve been piecing him together like a detective, only to end up with more questions than answers.
The name alone threw me. “Mac” doesn’t match the overworked, grumpy businessman I pictured when I answered the ad for housing in exchange for cat-sitting.
Tara was my sole point of contact through the application process—background check, references, logistics. But after I passed her screening, she insisted Mac and I talk directly.
That call lasted maybe two minutes, a month ago.
“Fair warning,” he’d croaked, sounding like an eighty-year-old smoker with a sinus infection, “I’ve had more cold medicine than any one person should consume in twenty-four hours, and I swear Tara’s messing with me and bought it from Dollar General.
I don’t trust it…” His voice faded out. Was he nodding off?
Between the congestion and the meds, I’d barely understood half of what he said.
Was I tidy? I might’ve stretched the truth on that one.
Was I good with cats? Yep. That one sent him on a bit of a tangent. Something about how Grace was his only girl, and that he’d been alone forever and probably always would be. Oh, that she had her own social media page, and would I be willing to post for her? Well, yeah, duh.
I’d chalked it up to loneliness with a side of NyQuil.
Did I have any questions? Nope. Great, Tara would handle the rest.
I’m not even sure he’ll remember talking to me.
As the house tour continues, I look for clues—family photos, fridge magnets, maybe a “#1 Something” mug in the sink—but everything is perfectly stylish and totally impersonal. The only thing I learn is that the guy really loves landscape paintings.
When we reach the stairs, I lose my shadow, and Grace voices her displeasure with a dramatic yowl.
“She won’t do stairs unless someone carries her,” Tara explains. “Mac spoils her rotten.”
I backtrack, grab my guitar in one hand, and scoop Grace up with the other. “Every girl deserves the princess treatment,” I tell her.
Tara giggles as we make our way to the second floor.
“Mac’s room is down that way.” She tips her head to the right, then leads me to a door at the opposite end of the hall and pushes it open. “And here you are.”
“Where is he, by the way? I was hoping to meet him.”
“Oh, he should be here any minute.” She glances down at her watch. “He’s always on time. Early, really, so this is unlike him.”
I smile at the worried affection in her voice. She has a motherly feel that makes me miss my own. Mama’s probably stress-baking cookies right now. I should call her. Let her know I’m settling in okay.
“How long have you worked for Mac?” I ask Tara as we step into my new room. It looks just like the pictures, right down to the white duvet and the narrow dresser against the far wall.
“Officially, seven years. Unofficially, I changed his diapers.” She huffs a laugh. “He’s my cousin, the baby of the family.”
“I didn’t realize you were related. That must be nice, working with family.” I run a hand across the comforter. It’s as soft and fluffy as it looks.
“It is.” She smiles. “Mac actually hired me less because he needed an assistant and more because I fell in love with an American and wanted to live close to him before we married.”
“He’s a hopeless romantic, then.”
Her lips tip down the slightest bit before her smile brightens again. “You could say that.”
I wonder what that’s about, but all I ask is, “Where are you from originally?” She doesn’t have an accent, as far as I can tell.
“Canada. Red Deer. It’s in Alberta, between Calgary and Edmonton.”
I’m guessing that’s where my new roommate is from, too. But before I can ask, the sound of the front door opening and closing carries up the stairs, followed by footsteps.
“Ten bucks says he’s rummaging through the fridge. That boy never stops eating.” She gestures for me to follow her.
I leave my guitar near the bed and shift Grace in my arms just as my phone vibrates. I fish it out as we head down the stairs. Grace’s purr thrums through my chest, almost matching the little stutter in my own when I read the message:
Miles:
You can call me whatever you’d like, honey. When can I see you again?
At the base, I set Grace on the floor, and she darts toward the kitchen. Tara and I follow her trail.
My thumbs hover over the screen. Do I play it cool? Hard to get? That’s never been me. So why start now?
Me:
Tonight?
The three little dots pop up almost immediately, dancing across the bottom of the screen.
Miles:
Can I take you on a proper date?
Okay
I’m still wearing a stupid grin when I walk into the kitchen. Sure enough, Mac is half-hidden behind the open fridge door.
I tuck my phone into my pocket.
“What’d I tell you?” Tara says fondly to me. Then she turns on Mac. “I told you our new cat-sitter was moving in today. Why on Earth are you so late?”
The fridge door swings shut, revealing the last man I expect to see here.
Six-foot-something. Broad shoulders. Messy, dirty-blond hair. Horn-rimmed glasses and a crumpled suit.
Heck.
He’s smiling down at his phone, thumbs moving over the screen.
My pocket vibrates.
“Miles?”
His gaze jerks up, connecting with mine.
“Summer.” He takes a step closer, then pauses, his brows pulling together. “What’re you doing here?”
Tara, none the wiser, chimes in, “She’s our cat-sitter, silly.” She looks between us. “Do you two know each other?”
“You could say that,” I get out just as Miles mutters, “Fuck.”