Page 13 of Suddenly Dating
Was this for real? This was exactly what she’d dreamed it would be! She suddenly sat up and looked at her watch. Okay, first things first. Clear out the last of the caretaker’s things. Bring her stuff in, turn in the car, and get a cab back. And tomorrow? Tomorrow, she would become the writer she’d always dreamed of being.
Five
For ten days, Harry had been living in a roadside motel that smelled like dog and cigarette smoke, and going from one meeting to the next, trying to line up his subcontractors for his first solo bid for a full bridge project. It was a small job, an elevated pedestrian walkway. But bidding on the whole project was a lot more work than he’d anticipated, and he was already worried if he had enough money in the bank.
But he was back in East Beach, headed up Juneberry Road, exhausted, wanting a beer and to dive into the pool and just chill before sleeping in a soft bed with clean sheets. He pulled up to the gate of the lake house, punched in the code, and waited as the gate slid open.
The lake house was too good to be true. Harry would never be able to thank Zach enough for this opportunity, which he’d told him profusely three weeks ago when he’d moved in.
“It’s all good, dude,” Zach had said.
It was better than good. The house was an amazing high-end showcase of modern conveniences and luxuries. Everything was automated and digitized. One only had to push this button or flip that switch, and entire glass doors slid quietly away so that you were practically living outdoors.
It was a dream to come home to after a hard day’s work—especially after ten days. It was great to unwind by walking down to the lake and throwing in a fishing line. Harry felt at peace here. He could put his worries in his back pocket for a few hours. He could put Melissa out of his mind here, too. He thought about her a lot, missed having someone to come home to every night... but he’d been so busy and so focused that he hadn’t dwelled on it. In all honesty, he was happy not to have to justify himself on a daily basis.
He definitely missed the sex. It had been such a regular part of his life that now he felt as if something was off, like the feeling he’d had when he cut back on sugar a few years ago. Like if he allowed himself, he’d sprinkle a whole five-pound bag on a bowl of cereal—it was that kind of feeling.
Harry tried not to think about it.
At the end of the drive he got out of his truck and looked at the house. As great as this space was, and as lucky as he was to have landed here, Harry did feel a bit like an intruder, given the situation with Zach’s divorce. He kept expecting a constable or someone to show up and tell him to get out. He was careful not to leave his mark on the house, careful not to get too comfortable.
But today? Today he was going to leave his mark all over the place, starting with the pool. Harry grabbed his bag and briefcase and walked up to the entry as he sorted through his keys looking for the one that would open the front door. Through the door’s wavy glass, he could see the sunlight shining in through the enormous sliding glass doors that opened onto the terrace.
Harry unlocked the door, stepped inside, and put his things down at the threshold. He suddenly noticed the smell of something that confused him. He paused, looking around. What was that? It smelled like lasagna. What was lasagna doing in his house? Harry cautiously took a step forward and scanned the sunken living room, and then the adjacent kitchen. He let out a tiny breath of surprise—things had been moved in that kitchen, new things added.
He stood there, hands on hips, completely disoriented. Had he somehow walked into the wrong house by mistake? Of course not—he’d come in through the same gate he always used. So whose laptop was that on the dining table, or the notebook beside it? And was that abrahanging off the back of the barstool? Why were there dirty dishes piled high in the sink? It was as if someone had come in to party while he’d been gone.
He suddenly noticed a woman rise up out of the pool. She was wearing oversized sunglasses, a two-piece bathing suit that wasn’t exactly a bikini, but was definitely sexy. Jesus, it wasn’t Zach’s wife, was it? Harry’s belly did a funny little flip—the last thing he wanted was to get involved in a domestic fight over this property. The woman paused on the pool step to wring water out of her strawberry-blonde hair, then stepped out of the pool, picked up a towel from a lounge chair, and wrapped it around her. She bent down to pick up what looked like an e-reader and a big bottle of water and started for the house.
Harry had met Zach’s wife only once, and he remembered her as tall and willowy with platinum hair. Zach’s wife did not have curves. This woman had nice, healthy curves that had not been whittled away by an overzealous diet. So who was she?
He was a little mesmerized, a little shocked, and a little stumped. He watched the woman walk right up to one of the sliding doors and open it, then walk into the house like she owned it.
She stepped inside, dropped her e-reader on the dining room table, and looked up, her gaze landing on Harry. It seemed like a very long moment passed before she made a sound that wasn’t as big as a scream, but not as small as a shriek, either. It was a squeal of surprise, and frankly, he yelped, too, startled by her squeal.
“You scared the hell out of me!” she cried accusingly. “What are you doing here?”
“Me?”
“Sara said she fired you!”
“Firedme? She can’t fire me.”
“Why not? Because of the restraining order?”
Therestrainingorder? What the hell was she talking about? Was she some random crazy woman on the loose, or was she part of Sara’s posse? More importantly, did she not realize she was dripping all over expensive walnut wood floors that clearly did not belong to her? “Are you Sara’s sister?” he asked.
“No!” She took off her sunglasses and squinted pale-blue eyes at him. “Aren’t you the guy?”
“Theguy? What guy? Whoareyou?” he demanded.
She snorted. “I thinkyoushould tellmewhoyouare. If you’re not the caretaker, then who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Zach’s,” Harry said. “Harry Westbrook.”
“Harry Westbrook,” she repeated, as if trying to call that name up from her memory.
“Believe me, we don’t know each other. Your turn. Who are you?”
