4. Libby
CHAPTER FOUR
libby
“Ready to go home yet, Princess?”
Heat rushes my cheeks and anger and embarrassment war with one another as I stare down at the giant of a man who broke into my house and then saved me from the spider.
I hate being called princess. But I hate spiders more.
I think.
Plump lips lift in a smirk of sorts. The expression is at odds with the man’s cranky aura. It’s almost like he’s angered by my presence, yet he’s in my house.
I press my palms flat against his chest and try to ignore the hard muscles that flex beneath my fingers as I push off him. Once I’ve extricated myself, I swipe at my legs. Maybe I can brush off the feel of his touch. God, I hope so.
“I am home.” Miraculously, I refrain from tacking the word asshole on under my breath. I’m good at holding my tongue. I’ve been doing it for years.
With my luck, this guy is a reporter or would be happy to call one up. Everyone has a price, and I imagine as soon as the papers discover I’m here, he’ll give them any tidbit I offer.
Brown eyes flecked with gold dance, probably at my expense. “We’ll see about that.” His eyes remain trained on me as he gets to his feet.
It’s not until he’s standing beside me that I realize just how big he is.
Wide shoulders, big arms folded across his chest, narrow hips, and thick thighs parted in a way that only magnifies his presence.
He takes up twice as much space as I do, above me and to the side.
He’s like a cloud, hovering about and blocking out the rest of the room.
If not for the scowl he wears as well as a cowboy wears a pair of Wranglers, I’d actually enjoy the view.
He’s older than I am by at least a handful of years and nice enough to look at for anyone who likes that whole dark, broody thing.
I certainly don’t. Not that I like the Hollywood look either.
An image of Brad, dressed in a tuxedo, jeering at me, flits through my mind. The thought is quickly followed by a shudder.
I think it’s just men in general that I don’t like.
If I’ve learned anything recently, it’s that men can’t be trusted. Especially men who call me princess.
I’m just about to tell him where he can stick it when my door flies open for the second time in as many minutes, and a little girl yells, “Fisher! What’s taking so long?”
“I told you to stay in the car.” His voice holds no malice, though, as he turns and shakes his head.
When he steps back, I get a better view of the pint-sized intruder. She’s about half his height, with golden blond hair done in two braids. When her blue eyes land on me, they widen comically, and her mouth falls open in an O.
“Fisher.” She brings a hand to the side of her mouth like she’s trying to hide her loudly whispered words. “Did you know that Elizabeth Sweet is standing right in front of you?”
I snort. She’s kind of adorable. “You can call me Libby.”
I didn’t think her eyes could get any bigger, but I swear they double again. They glitter with excitement too. “She said I can call her Libby.” Her hand is still cupped and her voice is still a whisper-shout.
The guy—Fisher?—rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you don’t need to repeat everything she says. I’m standing right here.”
The girl gives him an unamused glare that tells me she holds all the control in their relationship. “You’re so embarrassing.”
“My dad’s the same way,” I tell her. “I’m guessing his name is Fisher, but what about yours?”
“You don’t need to—” he starts.
“I’m Sutton,” she says, cutting him off with another glare. “Fisher and I live next door. If you need anything at all, just come knock.” She leans forward as if she’s telling me a secret. “Doorbell doesn’t work.”
“Sutton, you can’t just invite?—”
Her once wide eyes are narrowed into thin slits now, the expression fierce enough to shut the guy up.
He lets out a heavy sigh. “The doorbell doesn’t work.”
I think it’s supposed to be an invitation to stop by if I need something, yet it’s obvious he’s offering under duress. He clearly doesn’t like to be bothered.
But if that’s the case, then why did he come running into my house? I would have figured out the spider situation eventually. Or I would have burned the house to the ground.
Come to think of it…
“Where’d that spider go?” I scan the floor, my pulse picking up. Where did the eight-legged terror scurry off to? The last thing I need is for him to find me while I’m sleeping and crawl into my mouth and choke me in my sleep.
Images of the possibility have my body shuddering once more.
Sutton smiles. “Oh, there’s lots of spiders around here. I’m sure we can find you another friend.”
“Friend?” My voice is far too high, but I can’t help it. Not when the creepy-crawly sensation of phantom spiders has hit.
Her brows pinch together, like maybe this guy has convinced the poor, unsuspecting child that spiders are friendly.
“And what do you mean plenty of spiders around here?”
Amusement dances in Fisher’s eyes. “Like I was saying before.”
“Y- you need to get rid of them,” I sputter. “I can’t—no, I won’t stay here if there’s going to be spiders crawling all over me.”
“You could stay at our house,” Sutton says, face lit up. “I haven’t seen any spiders in our house in a long time.”
Fisher glares at her. “Your nose is growing, sweet pea.”
She rubs at it, bottom lip stuck out. “Is not.”
He huffs. “I’ll do a sweep. Take care of any spiders I find.”
A smile rips across my face. “Really?”
With another sigh—it’s gotta be his fifth since he barged in—he deflates. “Yes.” He turns toward Sutton and points a finger. “But you stay right here. And for once, actually listen to me.”
Sutton puts her hand behind her back and nods. “I promise.”
I try not to laugh. That girl definitely had her fingers crossed back there.
He glances at me once more before shaking his head and disappearing down the hall.
“So what do you think of our island?” Sutton asks, toeing the floor with one tiny shoe.
I take in the house. It looks nothing like I remember.
The magical space where I spent my last summer with my mother is drab.
The white couch with the bright blue and teal throw pillows has gone a bit yellow.
The dark shiplap floor lacks shine. The windows are cloudy.
With any luck, it’s from age, not spider webs, but I can’t risk looking too closely.
I should have agreed when my father suggested sending a cleaning crew out here first. But I was in a rush to get here, and now I’ve got to live with the consequences.
The last thing I want to do is prove my dad right.
In general, the last thing I want to do is call my dad, period. Every time I do, I risk uttering the truth in one long-winded confession.
And if I give in and do that, then keeping all these secrets for the last few years will have been for nothing. I’ll destroy the only family we have left. And worse, Dad could end up in jail. Then I’ll really be alone.
Or—and maybe this is what I’m most concerned about—he won’t believe me.
This is a no-win situation. Better I just keep my mouth shut and smile, like I always do.
I steel my spine, pull my shoulders back, and do just that. “It’s charming.”
Sutton’s lips lift in a wide smile. “Fisher says people say things are charming rather than calling them old.”
I snort.
“Or junk.”
This time I let out a full laugh. “Well, he’s not wrong.”
She rocks back and forth on her pink and white Nike Court Boroughs. “Are you staying here the whole summer?”
I nod. “Yes.” Maybe if I say it loud enough, I’ll come to terms with that truth.
“Then you have to do the summer play with us. It’s Grease this year. You would make the best Sandy!”
“You have a town play?”
How adorable. I haven’t done theater in a very long time, but god, the idea of it sets my pulse racing.
Working in television is nothing like live theater.
It’s hours and hours on set just to film a single scene.
It’s makeup touch-ups and constant fluffing of hair.
Directors who yell because they like the sound of their own voice and costars who stand just a bit too close and then…
“Yup!” Sutton bounces on her toes, her excitement pulling me back from the dark past I’m running from. “So will you do it?”
“Do what?” Fisher booms as he saunters back into the living room.
I turn to him, giving him a hopeful smile. “You took care of all the spiders?”
Hands on hips, he assesses me, his expression fixed into one that probably should look like annoyance but is more like a smolder. “They don’t call me the spider whisperer for nothing.”
Sutton scratches her head. “I’ve never heard anyone call you that.”
The man huffs and lumbers toward the door. “Come on. It’s time for dinner.”
“Have you got something to eat?” Sutton asks, her blue eyes hopeful.
I don’t have to look at Fisher to feel his disapproving glare.
I don’t actually have anything to eat, but if I tell them that, he’ll probably make some comment about how this is only further proof that I can’t take care of myself.
Then she’ll strong-arm him into inviting me over.
Which will lead to spending the night being glared at and judged.
No thank you. I’ve spent enough time with disapproving men already.
I’ve met my quota for the year. Hell, I’ve met the quota for a lifetime.
“Yup. And it’s been a long day. I left California last night, and I still haven’t slept or showered.”
She scrunches her nose.
Yeah, I agree. I can practically feel the dirt collecting on my skin.
“Say good night, Sutton,” Fisher growls.
“Good night, Sutton,” she singsongs.
I hold back a giggle. “Thank you for getting rid of the spiders.” I rub at my arms as I follow them to the door.
Fisher surveys me, his brown eyes narrowing on my bare arms like they offend him. “I’ll drop off a jacket in the morning,” he grumbles.
“Huh?”
“Your jacket. Heard you didn’t have one.”
I shrug. “I have one. The airport lost my luggage. It was in one of my bags. I’m hoping it turns up tomorrow, though.”
He shakes his head. “Until then, you need a jacket.”
I resist the urge to scoff. “It’s not that cold.”
Clearly exasperated by me, he sighs. Is that number six?
Or seven? Either way, I think I might like annoying him a bit more than I should.
“You’ll change your tune when the breeze comes in off the ocean in the morning.
” With that, he guides Sutton down the wooden steps of my cottage toward a pickup truck.
Hmm. Didn’t think there were any vehicles on the island. Wonder if I can get one…
He backs out of my driveway, and about five seconds later, they pull in next door.
Sutton hops out, blond braids flying, and runs into a house that looks almost identical to the one I’m staying in, though far more lived-in.
The windows aren’t as weathered, and the adorable navy blue shutters have a fresh coat of paint.
Small blue flowers bloom in pretty window boxes that are painted pink and white, each a little different from the last. Hmm, he must have a wife to have such a pretty home.
Poor woman. I can’t imagine dealing with a grump like him is easy.
I shut the door, making sure to twist the lock, then head up the stairs.
After twenty-four hours of running, I’m finally here.
Yes, maybe I endured the trip from hell—the broken plane, the sick passenger, a missed chopper, and a ride on the garbage boat —but I made it.
My house is spider-free, and I can already feel the magic my mother spoke of settling around me.
A warm shower and a good night’s sleep are all I need to rid myself of the residual stress of my travels.
I enter the bathroom, ignoring the musty smell, and peek behind the blue paisley curtain. With no spiders in sight, I let out a breath and reach in to turn on the water. While the water warms, I pull a set of pajamas from my suitcase.
Stripped down, I step into the tub and slide my head back into the spray. The ice-cold water that pulses down on my skull pulls a shriek from me, ramping up the tension in my body once more.
A cold shower, it is.