Still Not Over You(28)
Velvet, his weight pushing down in all the wrong places.
“Oof!” I shove at the cat blearily and uncramp myself with rickety, wooden motions. “Off you go.”
Rubbing at my eyes, I stumble inside toward the bathroom. I’m just washing my hands, though, when a noise from downstairs – clattering, intrusive – makes me freeze.
Landon may be temperamental, but it’s not like him to slam around his own house like that. It sounds like some kind of wild animal got into the kitchen and is trying to get out.
I take a shaky breath, eyes wide, and lean out the bathroom into the upstairs hallway. I can’t even see the cats; the noise must have scared them away.
“Landon?” I call tentatively.
No answer. Just another crash.
Oh crap.
I really wish I had a baseball bat or a crowbar or something right about now. If Mr. Hoodie came back...
No. I nerve myself to head downstairs, creeping down the steps, trying to keep my bare feet silent.
My inner voice – my author muse – is shouting in the back of my mind, reminding me that this is the point in the plot where the stupid girl who goes snooping gets murdered when she should’ve run the other way, especially if there’s a man in a black hoodie come back for round two to scare the crap out of me and possibly, you know, leave my insides all over my outsides.
My heart’s running wild. I try to remember the security code and intercom locations Landon drilled into me.
Of course I’m coming up blank.
Downstairs, I edge toward the kitchen door, flattening myself against the wall, and peer around the open archway.
A heart-shaped ass in a leather micro-mini peers back at me, bent over just enough to make it very clear someone’s pink panties are very, very crotchless.
What the hell?!
Said ass is currently about the only thing I can see of the person rummaging around in the refrigerator.
O-kay. So, Landon’s got company. And that’s totally not jealousy sitting sour and acid in my stomach. Never. Ever.
If crotchless panties and barely there skirts are his type to chase, no wonder he’s never even looked at me.
Miss Nameless straightens, her dirty blonde hair swinging down her back in a long, bone-straight tail. As she turns to eye the contents of the fridge door sourly, that’s when I recognize her. Her face has been all over TV, her voice all over the radio.
Milah Holly. Pop star. Singer. Celebrity. Multimillionaire.
Oh.
My.
God.
I must’ve made some kind of startled, strangled noise.
She stiffens, then turns to glance at me with a sort of wary suspicion, her surgically perfect nose turned up and slightly wrinkled. She gives me a once-over that makes me nearly squirm at the intensity of her scrutiny, as if she’s comparing every aspect of my body to every factory-manufactured bit of hers. Then she flutters her lashes – and they have to be falsies, there’s just no way – offering a smile so ingratiating it’s just plain condescending.
“Ah, bitchin' timing. You're Landon’s help, right? The cleaner?” She looks around with a cutesy little smile of feigned helplessness. “Do you know if Landon keeps any food in this house that doesn’t belong in a man cave? I'm starved and it's all meat and eggs here.”
There’s something proprietary about her attitude that grates on me. As if she’s not just sizing me up as a maid, but sizing up the entire house.
Like she’s planning to move in. There’s no way in hell Landon’s with her. This isn't making sense.
She’s the client, right? Not his date. So, I shouldn’t feel jealous. I shouldn’t feel this annoyance simmering and churning inside me.
And I shouldn’t open my mouth and blurt, “Actually, I’m his girlfriend.”
I curse myself before it’s even fully out of my mouth, but there’s no stopping it. Crap.
Crap, crap, crap why am I so impulsive? He’s going to kill me. He’s going to –
Milah laughs.
Holy hell.
I swear, I'll drag this woman out of here by her cheap blonde extensions.
I’m not a violent person, but the urge to knock that curling smirk off her lips is almost overpowering when she gives me another once-over and scoffs, “You? Hilarious! As if a man like Landon would ever settle for some mousy little C-cup. What are you even doing here?” She widens her eyes with a mock gasp, fluttering her fingers to her lips. “Wait. Did you wander in off the beach? Oh my God, you’re a vagrant. One of those bums I've heard about prowling up and down the beaches. I should call the cops. Get you some help. He'll probably thank me!”
I’m suddenly aware of what I must look like. I’d caught myself in the bathroom mirror when I was washing my hands.
My hair is a messy, ratty cloud after sleeping in a ponytail in the outdoor humidity. My shirt's stretched all out of shape. I’m not wearing makeup, and I probably still have sleep marks on my face. So, yeah, I’m not exactly a tall, leggy knockout stunner with perfect French tips and boobs in a bag.
That still doesn’t mean she gets to talk to me that way.
“Look, you little –”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Landon growls, cutting me off.
Milah and I both freeze. Landon fills the kitchen doorway, one arm braced over his head, shirtless in a pair of cotton sleep pants that fall sinfully down his narrow hips, a trail of dark hair leading from his navel. Dipping down, only to vanish past his waistband just short of fulfilling a very enticing promise.