Page 14 of The Billionaire's Runaway Bride

I continue to unload the groceries in the kitchen. Last night, Marian lent me the phone her late husband—John—had before he passed away. It’s an older model but can handle the basics like texting and looking things up. I appreciate the chance to be mobile, but I’m not staying on it for anything but basic means to contact Marian, which is already proving handy. She texted earlier, asking me to grab some groceries so she could be here to greet her guest.

Caleb. I scrunch my nose as I bring the last bag in. Even his name sounds pretentious somehow.

“Where’s the paint?” Marian asks when she comes down a while later. “Did you forget?”

“Nope. It’s outside.”

“I can’t wait to see the color.” She smiles wide.

“I can’t believe you let me pick!” After the words leave my lips, I frown. Such a simple choice, choosing a paint color. Saying it like that reminds me of how little control I’ve had in my life, that a paint color would seem like a big decision.

“As long as it’s not a poopy brown or pukey green…”

I giggle. “No, and no.”

“Then I’ll love whatever you’ve picked. Thanks so much for getting these,” she says of the groceries.

I’ve been opening and closing all the cupboard doors to figure out where it all goes, and she helps me finish the rest. Since the moment Marian opened the front door to me, I’ve felt comfortable with her. Silence seems companionable and whenever we chat, it’s like we’ve been friends for ages, not relatively new strangers in an impulsive boss-employee way.

But now, I struggle to hold my tongue. I’m clinging to annoyance with the way Caleb tried to hit on me, and I’m wondering if he’ll be a constant source of irritation. Just when I think I’ll be able to have peace, an idiot like him comes along.

“Where—”

“Caleb’s—”

We both laugh at talking over each other, but it’s silly that we might have had the same thing on our minds.

“Where’s Caleb from?” I ask. It sounds like I’m probing, and I hurry to think of a reason to justify my nosiness. “His accent is interesting.” It’s not, really. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s a New Yorker.

“Manhattan,” Marian replies easily. If she’s curious about my curiosity, she doesn’t show it. “He’s a wealthy CEO escaping the East Coast, here for a bit of a retreat.”

Retreat from what? Being a rich, fancy guy who thinks women should fall at his feet? “Ah.”

I refuse to show how little I like him. I immediately put him on my bad list, but I’m saved from Marian noticing my expression and asking about it.

“I’m going to start preparing dinner,” she tells me.

I hold up my hands. “And I failed home ec,” I announce.

“Just as well. I like to do things my way in the kitchen.” She tips her chin up in a show of exaggerated attitude. “I enjoy making food, but I do have a system.”

“Say no more.” I move toward the back door, eager to start making a difference outside. “I’m going to start cleaning up outside to get ready for the paint.”

“I can’t wait to see it. I’ll holler when the food is ready.”

I set about working outside, glad the guest who left her suitcase full of clothes was my size. The jeans fit at the waist but are too baggy. It’s appropriate, though, because as I get busy mowing, raking, and removing tall weeds along the house, I’m glad nothing creepy and crawly is on my legs. At least I hope nothing has jumped on me.

Getting the mower to start is a trial. John’s phone comes in handy, showing me a host of tutorials on how to start the machine. I nearly gag on the stench of bug spray I find in the gardening shed, too, but it seems to keep insects away. I sport tons of blisters because the work gloves are too big on my hands, and I debate for ten minutes if that vine near the corner is poison ivy or not.

I’ve never been a particularly outdoorsy person, not in a landscaping sense. At home, hired help took care of keeping the vineyard and my parents’ place immaculate and manicured. Here, though, I spend a good few hours embracing it all. I’m a sweaty, scratched-up amateur as I try to beat back the vegetation creeping up toward the house, but by the time I round the large building and inch my progress along the front yard, I assume I must be doing something right.

Weeds and tall grasses no longer rub against the walls, and if I keep at it, I think I can start scraping and painting tomorrow.

A sharp creak of wood makes me pause from drinking water.

I look over to find Caleb on the porch, leaning on the railing and peering at me. His smile is more guarded, but I see the curiosity in his eyes.

Yeah, he’ll be a pest.

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