Page 36 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“Fantastic.” I do not savor the idea of my Porsche being next to a dumpster full of crumbled plaster.
He starts tapping something into his phone. “Should you tire of traipsing around the block, this is the code to the front gate closest to the garage.”
My phone pings with his text.201609#
“And now you have my number should shouting across the fence grow tedious.”
The corner of my mouth tugs into a smile. “You’re wrong, you know.”
Mike leans back in his chair, the corner of his mouth also tugging upward. “Oh?”
“Renting your cottage to me is bound to be the best idea you’ve ever had. Ciao, Mike.”
“I’ll see you around.”
“No, I really don’t think you will.”
Chapter 12
My cottage is incredible. I feel reborn. Having my own space is exhilarating. Waking up to the smell of sea breezes and salt air is life-changing.
I splurge on all the romantic, rattan, bamboo, and wicker furniture that I wanted, which surprisingly was not that much. A little bit of rattan goes a long way, especially in this cozy space. A pretty rattan bed and my sleek contemporary ladder bookshelves for my literature and cactus collection, plus a small bamboo table with mixed-and-matched wicker chairs are what I’m working with at the moment. Any day now, my small couch and reading chair should be arriving, but I’m not rushing theprocess. I love how it’s coming together. Earthy textures. Russet shades of blush pink and burnt orange paired with soft creams and all the macramé plant hangers for my succulents and cacti that I want. It’s chic. It’s romantic. It’s bohemian. And it’s mine.
I have plans to kit out my courtyard. I dream of taking naps outside, having the ocean lull me to sleep. The plants are so pretty. I want to enjoy them. A conversation set, maybe with a fire pit. A canopy bed nestled somewhere in the corner. And eventually I’ll upgrade my bistro table to a gorgeous outdoor dining set. Not to mention a teak bench for the outdoor shower.
Compared to how suffocated my life was before in a massive house, this place feels like more than a breath of fresh air. It’s an oxygen chamber. It’s life. It’s everything. And today, with my furniture and most of my boxes unpacked, my new bedding perfectly steamed, my wardrobe hanging in the closet, my books almost all on the shelves, I feel…elated. Free. It’s time to celebrate. It’s time to sip a smoothie outside and dip my toes into the Pacific. It’s time—
The teeth-jarring screech of a tile saw grinds all my aspirations to a deafening halt.
Yes, I now know what a tile saw is. And a jig saw. And a hammer drill. They pick the absolute loudest machines for construction work.
Knowing that Mike Benedick is on the other end of the privacy fence has been less than incredible, but the construction is what will kill me. I swear, if I hear one more nail gun, I’m going to scream.
Up till now, I’ve let my irritation over the renovation mask the other stuff that I could be feeling. Truth be told, there’s been more than enough for me to literally unpack before I dig into how I feel about Mike being my landlord and…
My eyes dart to the leather-bound sonnets on my bed. I fell asleep last night reading them.
I haven’t had time to dig around at the county assessor’s, but there’s got to be someone older, wiser, and not Mike who actually owns this place and the books. Because in no world is Mike the insightful, sexy, sincere annotator of an impressive personal library of literature. There is no way that my bookish crush is the man who called me a cactus, ran me into a pool, and cosplays as Badpun. Mike is a property manager turned general contractor for someone somewhere, and I might as well hold on to the sonnets until I know for certain who they belong to.
My phone pings.
It’s a text from Mike.Forgot to put it in the contract, but Windansea has a really rough reef break. Not a great beach for body surfing, swimming, or boogie boarding. Also not a great beach for learning to surf or novice surfing. I’m not liable for any injuries if you get hurt out there.
I let out a guttural groan and hear a low chuckle from the other side of the fence. Great. He’s sitting on his side of the fence, just an arm’s reach away. As tempting as it is to throw my smoothie over the fence, I abstain.
“What about walking?” I shout. “Is it safe to walk along the beach? Dip my toes in the water?”
“Only if you do the stingray shuffle,” Mike calls. “Do they know about the stingray shuffle in Del Mar?”
I want to scream. Instead, I head back inside my cottage, shove the sonnets in the top drawer of my nightstand, change into my swimsuit, and throw on a linen cover-up. Before I can head to the ocean, my phone starts barking. Adam set the FroggoDoggo notifications to bark at me, and I haven’t changed them back.
“A new client,” I say to no one, “and a cat owner!”
The address isn’t far. I’m happy to change my plans. While I saved quite a bit of money living at home the last two years, life in La Jolla is expensive. I haven’t crunched the numbers yet, but it doesn’t take an accountant to know that I’ll need some moreclients—and lots of them—if I want to make my exit from the legal profession permanent.
It’s why I changed my profile on the app last night to include pet sitting services in addition to dog walking. And why not? I’m an equal opportunity pet lover.
I grab my sun hat, strap on some sandals, and head to a split level on Avenida Cresta.
