Chapter 6 Luke
LUKE
“Scarlett!” I bellowed. Was nothing sacred?
I slammed the drawer where my toothbrush should have been and stalked out of the bathroom, through my bedroom and the changes I still hadn’t adjusted to, then down the stairs.
Enough. This was enough. Wasn’t this my house?
Apparently not. Over the past week, I’d begun to feel like a stranger in my own damn home.
All I wanted was to walk through my door each evening and have my things be in the same place where I’d left them that morning.
When I’d left for work, I’d thought today might be that day.
Today, I wouldn’t come home to a minefield.
She had to be done making changes, right?
I mean, there wasn’t much else to touch.
How wrong I’d been. I’d come upstairs ten minutes ago to put my gun in the safe and take a piss only to find another host of changes.
Scarlett had given me one month of peace, but the clock had run out. She was trapped here and clearly, she’d decided to retaliate.
Against me.
I should have seen it coming. This was the Scarlett I’d hauled out of the grocery store. The infuriating, stubborn woman who had no respect for the way I’d organized my life.
When she spotted me coming down the staircase, she scrambled from the living room to the kitchen, pretending like nothing was wrong.
“Enough,” I snapped when I reached the island, planting my hands on the granite.
“What?” She lifted a shoulder, shooting me the same sly grin I’d seen every single day for a week.
I pointed a finger at her nose, opened my mouth, but damn it, her grin spread to an actual smile and my lecture about privacy and boundaries died on my tongue.
Scarlett’s smile was marvelous. It transformed her eyes into brilliant, azure jewels. Damn, but she was lovely. Exasperating, but stunning. My frustration and anger didn’t stand a chance against that kind of beauty.
I sighed and spun for the fridge, taking out a beer.
I’d been working around the clock for weeks on end and the long, consecutive days were draining me dry.
When I left the station each evening, I wanted to come home and relax.
Instead, I came home on full alert, wondering what was different.
At first, the changes had been easy to spot.
My bedroom. Her bedroom. The second guest bedroom.
The living room. Then Scarlett had gotten creative.
My books in the office were no longer organized by time period, but alphabetically by author last name. She’d spouted something about libraries and bookstores and convention. I’d walked away midsentence.
Then she’d turned the kitchen upside down. That had been three days ago and I still wasn’t sure which drawer had the silverware.
And today, my bathroom.
The woman had rearranged every single room in the house. How she’d moved the heavy furniture I had no idea, but I’d learned something in the past week.
Scarlett Marks was a powerhouse.
It didn’t matter that she was petite, that she didn’t stand much above five feet tall. This woman was a force.
“You’re moving everything.”
She waved it off. “It flows. And it’s more efficient.”
“I don’t give a fuck about efficiency.”
“Clearly,” she muttered. “Who puts their toothbrush in a drawer?”
“Me.”
Scarlett planted a hand on her hip. “Just try it.”
“I never should have given you the login to .” I dragged a hand through my hair.
The day after she’d confided in me about her parents—the same day I’d walked into my bedroom and caught her sweet citrus scent, savoring it before I’d even noticed the changes—I’d brought her my laptop along with a sticky note scribbled with the username and password.
I’d bought Scarlett a few items online, some jeans and shirts, but it was strange to pick out her clothes. Too domineering. Then after she’d told me about her father, I knew I’d never do it again.
She deserved to buy her own things. So I’d given her the login to my account.
I had no idea how closely the FBI was monitoring my life.
Much to my disappointment, Agent Maria Brown hadn’t disappeared from Clifton Forge.
Why they were expending so much effort and resources, I wasn’t sure.
It was enough to make me uneasy and careful.
But to give Scarlett just a sliver of freedom, I’d taken the risk and let her shop.
It had backfired on me. Epically.
Every evening I got home to a stack of boxes waiting outside the door. Scarlett knew not to haul them in herself.
I cringed, thinking about how much she’d spent in less than a week. And every time I hauled in a load, ready to scold her or tell her to slow it down, I’d see that smile on her face as she tore into her purchases.
She’d bought candles. A tray for the TV remotes. Knickknacks for the built-in shelves beside the fireplace. Books she had no intention of reading but that looked pretty.
I’d thought the toothbrush holder and drawer organizers she’d unboxed yesterday had been for her bathroom.
Wrong.
Maybe this was her way of testing my limits. Testing to see if I’d explode.
I wouldn’t. Not only because I wasn’t that kind of man, but because earning her trust was too important.
So I guzzled my beer—an amber bottle of patience—while she filled two bowls with rice and a stir fry mix.
“Do you want hot sauce?” she asked.
“No.” I tossed my empty bottle in the trash, then went to the cabinet for a glass. Instead I found the plates. I moved down the line. Plastic storage containers. Spices. Coffee mugs. “Where are my glasses?”
Scarlett pointed to the cabinet directly beside the sink.
Efficient. Son of a bitch.
“Here.” She took out a glass for me, handing it over. “It’s a better flow.”
If she said flow one more time . . .
I took the glass from her hand, breathing fire from my nose. Then I turned on the water to cold, letting it run for a second before filling my glass. I tipped it to my lips and chugged it all gone. Then I slammed the glass onto the counter. “You better not move my beer.”
“Never.”
What a damn liar.
Scarlett pulled her lips together to hide a smile.
“Are we done now? Can we be done?” I tossed an arm toward the rest of the house. “You’ve touched it all.”
Her eyes darted toward the garage.
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed in a silent challenge. She’d do whatever rearranging she wanted, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. While I was at the station, there was no way I could stop her if she went wild in the garage.
She knew it. I knew it.
For fuck’s sake.
“Just keep the doors closed,” I muttered, refilling my glass, then stalking to the living room and plopping down on the couch. She’d shifted it so it sat perpendicular to the television instead of parallel like I’d had it.
Scarlett came into the living room and handed me my bowl before plucking a remote from the carved wooden tray on the coffee table. Then she sat cross-legged in the chair that she’d angled against the wall, her own dinner resting in her lap.
Her chair.
Even after she left here, that would be her chair.
The way she’d configured the living room made it feel bigger. It made watching TV from the couch easier. And it turned the french doors that led to the backyard into a focal point.
It looked nice, something I was never going to admit.
“What do you want to watch?” she asked.
“Whatever.” I sat up to focus on my meal. The toss pillows on the couch were new and though four seemed excessive, they were easy to sink into.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Scarlett’s smile as I relaxed into the downy comfort.
Damn it. The pillows could stay. And I’d use my new toothbrush holder.
Scarlett flipped on the TV, scrolling through channels until she landed on an action movie.
We settled in, eating and watching, like we’d done every evening this past week. Although we could have eaten at the island, the living room seemed to be Scarlett’s preference. And I wouldn’t ask her to sit in the dining room again.
There was another stack of boxes on the porch that I’d bring in after the dishes were done. She’d open them. I’d grumble. Then we’d retreat to our own areas for the remainder of the night.
The routine was becoming more and more familiar. Scarlett had lived here for over a month, and one thing was certain, she kept it interesting. Even her food choices had added some variety to my life. Gone were the predictable and simple days.
The lonely days.
Scarlett didn’t initiate conversation. She didn’t feel the need to fill the silent moments with idle chatter. But it was nice to have another person around, to come home to. It reminded me of life with Dad. When he came to town for a visit, our evenings weren’t all that different.
Josh Rosen was a man of few words. Because he made sure the ones he spoke were the ones you needed to hear.
Maybe he’d meet Scarlett one day. Dad would get a kick out of her quiet wit and determination. Maybe if the FBI left town and we could ensure the Warriors weren’t a threat, Scarlett would stick close to Clifton Forge to be around Presley. And Scarlett and I . . . maybe we could be friends.
“Presley didn’t come to the station today,” I said, setting my empty bowl aside.
Scarlett blinked. “I didn’t realize she had been.”
No, she wouldn’t have. I’d been tight-lipped about the things happening beyond these walls. Not because I’d wanted Scarlett to feel isolated, but because she was isolated.
She didn’t need to know all about the shit swirling in town, not when she was powerless to change it.
So I hadn’t told her that the FBI came to the station each day.
I hadn’t told her that last weekend when I’d gone outside to clean the windows, I’d actually been searching for any sign of electronic surveillance on my house.
And I hadn’t told her that two weeks ago, Dash had seen a Warrior in town.