Page 15 of Heart Strings & Hotlines
Rafe and Kara groan while I dig deep for any meditation technique that will help me here.
I cannot control others—I only control myself.
Okay, let’s focus on the facts. Thane, my client, is in my home. He bought the house next door to me, intentionally, because he thought it would help his sister, and he truly appears to see no problem with that whatsoever.
And apparently, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I don’t care either because my heart did a somersault at the sight of him once the shock wore off.
“This is so messed up,” I mutter. “Why are you carrying Hercules?”
“She was in the master closet.”
“What? That asshole just left her there?”
Thane doesn’t answer me. Obviously Johansson left Hercules behind, and I’ve learned that Thane isn’t the most emotive guy, so unnecessary words are not his forte.
“The Carvers said the shelter was full, so I’d have to keep her. Temporarily.”
Fuck. Fuckety fuck.
“You’ve, ah, met the Carvers?”
“They were selling jam or something. So what do I do with this thing?” Thane asks, pointing to his chest again.
When did that become my problem?
Apparently, it became my problem at a kiddie camp in Sailport Bay when all my attempts to avoid this man were thwarted…by him.
It would be so much easier if I was creeped out by him, and admittedly, this is some next-level stalker shit, but I don’t think even I can classify the tingle in my chest as creeped out.
And then there’s his sister, who reminds me so much of myself at that age. It’s why I’ve bonded with her against my better judgment.
It never should have gotten this far. I shouldn’t have even had any direct contact with them, but I can’t deny that a tiny, nearly imperceptible thrill lights up my chest whenever one of his formal-ass messages comes through.
Now they’re my neighbors and they have an emotional support person in tow.
How did this become my life?
My front door opens, and Mrs. Carver walks in.
“Don’t you knock?” Thane blurts.
Mrs. Carver belly laughs. She thinks he’s joking.
“Sweetbriar has an open-door policy, son. If it’s open, we enter,” she says.
“Lock the door every time you enter,” Thane says, pointing a finger at both Kara and Rafe.
“Oh, good. Good. Vinny said he saw two more guests enter while I was in the restroom. Lottie, dear, you need potpourri or something in your office. It’s got a foul scent in there.”
“I don’t have clients there, Mrs. Carver. It’s just a place for me to work. No one is supposed to be in there but me. However, the Scuttlebutts insist on holding meetings there every Tuesday.”
“Yes, yes. So, you’ve said. Come now—all of you, next door. You’re just in time for the meeting. Having you there will help with the planning, and Boone is excited to get to work.”
Mrs. Carver ushers us all out of my house, across the porch, and into the second half of my duplex that I remodeled into an open floor plan office. It has storage on the second floor and guest space for when Rowan comes to visit. She hasn’t come yet, but she will.
Stepping into my office, I’m not at all surprised to see the other Scuttlebutts already mingling.
Mrs. Perez stands in the corner with her hands on her hips and a wide smile that means she’s assessing our new guests.
