Page 24 of Casita Casanova

So she’s a sassy woman obsessed with birds and dirt. I run my tongue over my teeth. “Telling you, I guess.”

“Hmm.” She pulls her gloves off, then pushes her sunglasses up onto the top of her head, and I’m taken aback by the deep, chocolate brown of her eyes. She holds my gaze for a long time, then nods toward the house. “You’re not thrilled to be here.”

“Nope.”

Her eyes narrow. “Then why are you?”

My muscles tense, and my heart beats a little faster. I don’t have an answer prepared. WhyamI here? Well, truthfully, I’ve been sent away like a tempestuouschild.

And the idea of admitting that to this woman makes my palms sweat.

Strange.

Something about those dark eyes and the way she watches me like I can’t pull anything past her makes me want to avoid telling her anything that’ll make me look like the uncontrollable jackass playboy I am.

“I needed a vacation.”

Her lips twitch. “So… you picked Leucadia… but you’re unhappy about that.”

I shrug. “This place is all right.”

“Ah.” She looks behind her, then motions to the house. “You’re unhappy about the rental itself.”

Shit. “No. That’s not…” I look at the tiny shack behind her. “Your house is great. It’s really nice. Um… colorful—”

She barks out a laugh. “Okay, let’s not get too carried away. It’s old and needs love, but…” She looks back at it again, and I swear she says, “so do I.”

I tilt my head. Did I hear her correctly?

She looks back at me and offers a slight shrug. “It has character most new places don’t have.” She motions to the gate in front of me. “Come on in. I’ll show you around mycolorfulhouse.”

When she winks, something warms in my chest, and when she slides her sunglasses back down over her eyes, I ignore the pang of disappointment in my chest because what the fuck?

I open the gate and step inside—

“Oh no!” She jumps into the path as a beast charges past her, nearly taking her down in its haste to attack me. It’s a massive mass of golden-brown fur and a pink, floppy tongue bouncing out the side of its mouth as it beelines right for me. “Look out!”

I drop my garment bag and raise my hands as the monster leaps through the air and slams into my chest. We fall backwards and, thankfully, I land in the garden instead of impaling myself on the edge of the fence or cracking my skull on the cobblestone path.

My face is assaulted with that floppy tongue. It laps at my cheeks, my chin, my neck, tries to slip up my nose and suck out my eyes.

“It smells like fish!” My stomach rolls as the beast continues assaulting me with sloppy, fishy kisses. I push the dog away, cringing at the wet smears it left all over my face.

“Ribbit! No!” The bird woman appears in my line of sight, looking down at me as she hauls the two-hundred-pound golden retriever off of me, laughing as if anything about this is funny.

This is an eight-hundred-dollar Brunello Cucinelli sweater!

The dog wags its tail as it watches me rise to my feet, barely restrained by a woman who can’t stop laughing at my misfortune.

With a huff, I smooth my sweater and assess my clothing, picking dirt and leaves off of my pants.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, the amusement in her voice telling me she’s not sorry at all.

“Why’s it so fishy?” I shudder as I retrieve my luggage and step past her, making my way up the cobbled brick path. I’m in Hell. Actual Hell. And now I smell like a fish market.

“That’s the salmon oil.”

I look back at her over my shoulder and shake my head.

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