The Last Eligible Billionaire(4)

And there’s a single lock of hair falling across his broad forehead like it’s tired of behaving, or possibly it just doesn’t have any fucks left to give about doing what it’s supposed to do.

Are those one and the same?

I don’t know.

But I do know I should’ve been enjoying cheesecake for breakfast right now, and if I don’t get this hair dye out of my hair soon, there’ll be no chance of I didn’t see you standing there, Begonia ever again, because my hair will glow so bright, astronauts could see it from Mars.

As if that’s my biggest worry when there’s an intruder trapping me in a closet.

If I try to dash out of here, Marshmallow will think it’s playtime, and I give myself a fifty-fifty shot of getting through the door before this Hayes Rutherford person attacks.

And then it clicks. “Oh my god, Hayes Rutherford. Like the president, but backwards. Did your parents do that on purpose?”

He blinks one slow blink at me, and I get the impression no one has ever asked him that in his entire life.

Note to self: Do not make jokes about presidents’ names with a burglar who might have murder on his mind.

Other note to self: If I’m living out a horror flick, I am definitely the first victim. It’s always the vain one who gets it first, which is so stupid, because I’m not vain. I’m having a single morning of pampering myself in a luxury bathroom. This has happened approximately five other times before in my life. The pampering part, I mean. Not the luxury bathroom part. I’m usually pampering myself in a bathroom a third of the size of this closet. It is definitely a first for a luxury bathroom.

And one final note to self: I’m growing more and more confident by the second that he’s not planning to murder me. But I still don’t like this situation.

Marshmallow, my Shiloh shepherd, is slowly calming down. I have maybe twenty seconds before this Hayes Rutherford person realizes the dog’s more likely to flip the lights off and shut the door in here than he is to actually bite.

Poor Marshmallow.

His best wasn’t quite what they were looking for in service dog school.

“Yes,” Hayes Rutherford finally says. “That’s exactly it. My parents have a presidential sense of humor.”

“You’re lying.”

He makes a face like there’s a fly attacking his nose. “How did you get in here?”

“With the code. I rented this house for two weeks. How did you get in here?”

“Where did you rent this house?”

Have I mentioned that I’m over men? Because I am so over men. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’ve answered your question six times. I own this house. Where did you rent it?”

“Vacation rental site. And you answered that question twice, which doesn’t make me believe it any more than I did the first time. How do you have a vacation rental house that you don’t know is a vacation rental house?”

Something else flickers in his eyes—annoyance, I think—and for the first time since he nearly gave me a heart attack in the bathroom, I realize he might actually own this house, and there’s a reasonable chance I’m not supposed to be here.

Marshmallow seems to realize it too. He tilts his head, goes back on his haunches, and gives a final harumph.

It’s a harumph of of course you should’ve known renting this house for fifty bucks a night was too good to be true, Begonia. He lies down and curls one paw under his chest.

I cut a glance at the row of suits, shirts, and jeans lined up neatly on hangers in the closet. The dresser in the bedroom is full of men’s underwear and socks and the funniest assortment of pajama pants. There’s a study on the main floor, stocked with books and family photos that I haven’t looked at closely, because I assumed it was merely ornamental fluff to go along with the posh feel of the rest of the house.

But is this man in those photos?

Is this really his house?

It did seem odd that there were clothes and personal effects scattered about, but then, the last time I did a vacation rental, it was me and four of my college girlfriends renting a place in Panama City Beach, and not a swanky mansion like this. It made sense that popular spring break destinations would be as sparsely furnished as possible, given that it would usually be college kids pooling pennies to rent them, and that upscale luxury homes on quaint islands off the coast of Maine would have more amenities.

But again—fifty bucks a night.

When the listing said unexpected vacancy, special deal, I should’ve known.

I really should’ve known.

Am I—am I here illegally?

Welp.

I wanted an adventure.

Looks like I’m getting one. Might come with a mugshot.

My mother will love that.

But I have a vacation rental agreement. I can’t get arrested for trespassing when I have a rental agreement.

Can I?

Am I responsible if I didn’t know I signed a fraudulent agreement?

“Will you please put that damned hair dryer down?” he mutters. “And for god’s sake, tie the robe.”

I look down, squeak, then jerk my head back up while I aim the hair dryer at him and try to pull the two sides of the robe together with my other hand. I’m standing here with my cooch hanging out and at least one nipple pointing at him.