Chapter 3
Cami
High-pitched squeaks echoing from the attic have convinced me Ms. Palmer’s house is possessed.
At first, I assumed it was water passing through old pipes.
So I settled into the bubble bath I’d drawn, ready to sip peppermint tea and get lost in a novel I’d purchased at Heathrow.
But once those squeaks grew louder and more ominous, I hopped out the bathtub, wrapped myself in a robe, and practically flew downstairs before barging out the front door.
Straight into Neighbor Guy.
Again. Great.
Dark, judgmental eyes rake over me and my…attire. He probably thinks running around naked or half-naked is my go-to hobby.
“Hi.” I twist the damp ends of my hair and tip my chin toward Ms. Palmer’s house. “Something strange is happening in the attic.”
“Something strange…” he deadpans, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Loud squeaks, to be exact.” I remain calm even while my heart gallops—and not so much from those attic noises. Pretty sure he’s the one kicking my heart into overdrive. “Go inside, and have a listen for yourself.”
“So…let me get this straight.” His brow hikes north. “You want me—the guy you publicly chewed out earlier today—to step into your house and investigate strange, loud squeaks?”
Maybe the request sounds odd, even a little ridiculous, but does he have to be all rude about it?
“Never. Mind.” I glare at Neighbor Guy, shoulder-check past him, and stomp toward the beach, its shore bathed in silvery moonlight.
Sure, he’s super easy on the eyes.
But grumps, and attic noises, are giant red flags that will send me running straight for the hills…or, in this case, down the hill and straight onto the beach.
Three days in, and what had started out as a house-sitting getaway has already turned into a house-sitting nightmare—thanks to awkward run-ins with Neighbor Guy and now ghosts, or whatever, dancing on the ceiling.
Crystal Cove, the small town for big-hearted families, can officially fuck off.
“Hey!” Mr. Grump calls after me. “Where are you going in only a robe?”
Truthfully, I’ve no flipping clue. There are only two houses on this stretch of beach: Ms. Palmer’s and his. The next waterfront home is at least a mile away.
Despite that, I shrug in reply and traverse ahead, bare feet sinking in the warm sand. It’s not like I can call an Uber to drop me off wherever; my phone’s still inside Ms. Palmer’s stupid poltergeist house. Most likely dead anyway, knowing me.
“Fine,” he drags out seconds later.
And when he finally offers to check out the noise, relief swirls in my belly.
Side by side, we head toward Ms. Palmer’s house, a puff of wind snaking between us.
Neighbor Guy looks even hotter than he did earlier today: jogger shorts and a long-sleeved, nylon workout shirt hugging his frame like paint.
God, he even smells better.
Of course my mind veers straight to how it might feel with him pressed against me, that shirt the only barrier.
Ugh. This so-called relationship detox has clearly left me thirsty, with an ache I’m pretty sure only bad decisions will fix.
It’s ridiculous that a guy I barely know can make me feel both giddy and annoyed. Though if I’m honest, the annoyance is rooted in one undeniable fact: he’s already seen every naked inch of me—while I’ve seen none of him.
“You’ll have to remove your shoes before we step inside,” I explain. “Ms. Palmer doesn’t want sand in her house.”
“Ms. Palmer?” he repeats like she’s some made-up character.
Seriously? He doesn’t even know his next-door neighbor’s name? So much for small-town charm.
“Mm-hmm.” I shrug. “I’m house-sitting all summer while she’s in Costa Rica.”
He mumbles something I can’t quite catch. Probably about crazy women and haunted houses.
We need an icebreaker.
But what?
“Funny how we keep bumping into each other?”
No way. Too cringe. Abort mission.
At the front door, I wipe my sandy feet on the nautical-themed welcome mat and watch my grumpy neighbor toe out of his running shoes.
Though I’m careful to avoid eye contact, I can feel his gaze.
And as if it has some heady, gravitational pull, my eyes slowly meet his, where they linger.
My heart flutters as if it, too, realizes that in this moment, no one else in the world seems to exist. Well, us and whatever keeps howling in Ms. Palmer’s attic.
“Funny how we keep bumping into each other,” he says, and I snort-giggle.
“I literally thought about using that as an icebreaker two seconds ago.” I step inside and motion for him to follow me upstairs. “And for the record, you, sir, bumped into me.”
He scoffs. “I’ll concede if you promise to never call me sir again. Makes me feel like I’m your boss or even worse—your dad.”
“Well, you look way too young to be either,” I shoot back over my shoulder. “And sir is a major upgrade from Neighbor Guy, which is the nickname I gave you.”
“Neighbor Guy, huh?” He chuckles. “How ’bout Knox instead?”
Knox.
Perfect name for a perfectly sexy grump.
“I’m Cami,” I say, coming to a halt at the top of the stairs.
Our eyes lock, and for a beat too long, his lingers before sliding down for a quick once-over.
I’d totally forgotten that nothing but a short satin robe covers me, skin still damp from my failed bubble bath.
He’s seen it all, yet here I am, blushing like it’s our first high school dance and I don’t know what to do with my hands.
“So,” I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, “is Crystal Cove home, or are you in town on vacation?”
I’ve already surmised a likely scenario: here until his model wife and adorable kiddos join him for their yearly summer getaway.
No way this beautiful man lives in that house all alone.
“I’ll be in town a few months while my—” He cuts himself off, stealing a glance toward the bathroom down the hall. “Hear that?”
Caught up in our chat, I’d tuned out everything but the gorgeous grump in front of me.
“Hear what?” I fold my arms, brows arched. “Strange…loud…squeaks?”
Knox’s eye roll tells me he catches the splash of sarcasm in my tone. “Wait here while I check it out.”
Wait here? Alone? For some loud, squeaky, squealy monstrosity to make a grab-and-go meal out of me?
Yeah, no thanks.
“Um,” I chirp, and Knox turns to face me, his brows knitted. “Since you don’t know your way around this house, won’t it be helpful if I come along?”
Knox shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll be fine. Crystal Cove Beach homes have identical layouts. But if you wanna tag along…” he trails off, resuming his trek toward the hallway. “Stay behind me.”
Well, alrighty then.
Bossy Pants leads us down the hallway toward the bathroom, floorboards creaking beneath our feet.
I probably look silly, following so closely behind him on tiptoes, padding past cerulean walls adorned with beach-themed artwork. Ms. Palmer’s house definitely exudes a sense of tranquility, a peaceful retreat, apart from Casper, that is.
As we step into the bathroom—bubbles spilling from the clawfoot tub, a soggy copy of Pet Sematary bobbing on the surface—those eerie squeals intensify.
By instinct, I grab hold of Knox’s shirt.
“Sorry,” I whisper, releasing my grip. “Sorta feels like we’re starring in a horror movie.”
“Yeah, especially since one of us has been reading a Stephen King novel.”
This time, I catch a splash of sarcasm in his tone. “Haha. Very funny.”
Knox’s dark perusal flits to the bathroom’s vaulted ceiling, his ankle-sock-covered feet planted on bright, aquamarine tiled flooring.
And, as he stands in the middle of the room, arms folded, it’s difficult for me to pull my attention elsewhere. Not when the nylon fabric of his shirt stretches across those bulging biceps.
My mouth waters as “relationship detox” me wonders how it would feel to be wrapped in his arms.
Ohmygosh. Am I salivating?
I need to get a hold of my hormones. Remind myself he’s probably married, has three kids, and a golden retriever named after an old president.
Still, I’m not going to lie: he’s a perfect distraction from the horror-movie noises blaring from above.
“I’ll check the attic,” Knox says, stepping toward me. He gives a pointed look. “You? Stay put. I mean it.”
“Fine.” I fold my arms over my chest. “I’ll wait in the hallway and listen in case you call for help.”
What’s the point in arguing with His Royal Bossiness? Besides, I can pop into the bedroom to change out of this robe and into something less revealing.
Moments later, after slipping into a white tee and shorts, I practically stumble back into the hallway, in a hurry and not too graceful about it.
Seconds tick past before I hear footsteps above me, followed by a deafening silence.
“Knox?” I call out, heartbeat thrumming.
But there’s no response.
All hopes he’d save me from giant, ghost rats vanish into thin air.
Panic sets in, a montage of grim scenarios flickering through my mind in rapid-fire sequence.
He’s been hurt, captured, or worse…
Until his deep timbre cuts through the silence like a lifeline. “You’ll never guess what’s up here.”