Page 8 of Living Hell

Standing in front of the perfect little home—which the real estate agent called a Cape Cod style—I forced myself to take it all in. I always thought it stood out among the bigger homes in the neighborhood, especially, with its gray shingle siding and black shutters. I remember hoping my parents would rent this home, but they couldn’t afford it even if it had been available.

I pushed the key into the lock and took a solidifying breath.

“This is it, Tyler. No more moving. No more changing addresses with the postal office. No more packing.”

I turned the key and the red wooden door opened rather easily. That was concerning . . . It was like the door wasn’t even locked. I now have the first task on my homeowner’s list—have a locksmith come out.

My mouth fell open at what I saw inside.

There was furniture everywhere. For a second, I thought the movers had come but no mover I encountered put furniture in place perfectly, unless they were ordered to. They usually dumped it inside and walked away.

The realization hit me with each step I took inside my home, this wasn’t my couch or chairs or glass coffee table. There was a cell phone on the table. Not my cell phone, not my table.

Somebody was living in my house.

“What the fu—” I said, but the sound of running water caused every curse word to die in my mouth.

Were there squatters? If they were, they owned some nice furniture, except for the coffee table . . . I hated glass tables.

Weaving through the living room, I came to the bathroom door. For a moment, I considered knocking but this was my house, so fuck it. Grabbing the knob, I turned that sucker with a grip that would strangle a chicken.

Whoever the person was behind the door needed to leave or I’d happily throw them out, whether they had a stitch of clothing on or not.

As the door swung open and the steam evaporated, instead of charging into the small room and demanding an explanation, I stood frozen in place. My eyes did what any red-blooded, heterosexual male’s eyes would do in that situation—they slid down the wet, naked, delectable female form that stood before me. A damp orange beach towel was draped loosely and covered the nonessential bits of a female body. I saw two perfectly shaped tits, enhanced by her caramel-colored skin, which looked so soft that I itched to reach out and touch it.

Not just touch but lick it. Would she taste as sweet as she appeared? My cock was begging me to do anything to find out.

“Oh my God! Get the fuck out,” the woman said in an octave that I was sure alerted the police two blocks over.

I was glad she screamed as it snapped me back from the sexual fantasy that was being played out in my bathroom.

“I need to get out? You’re the one trespassing.” My voice cracked as I pointed my finger at her.

There was something about her brown, almond-shaped eyes, and the small scar right under her lower lip that reminded me of someone.

My brain, slowed from the display of so much tempting skin, finally put it together.

“Wait a minute . . . Iona? Iona Dell?” Each syllable moved further and further up in surprise.

During my stupor, she had adjusted the towel to cover most of her body, except her legs. I never was much of a leg man, but she had some terrific legs.

“Tyler Ferguson? What the hell are you doing in my house?”

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