The Last Eligible Billionaire(8)

And goodness knows I’m here for the adventure, though I wouldn’t have minded if that adventure was the other Rutherford brother.

The one who feels significantly safer at the moment.

I used to tell my mom I was going to marry Jonas. Specifically, the version of him that starred in That Last Summer.

That was the only Razzle Dazzle Studios movie where he came out of the ocean in a wet T-shirt that clung to his pecs and abs. The movie where he raced across an entire island with his heroine in his arms because she stepped on a jellyfish and had an allergic reaction, and then he cried when he almost lost her. Of course he didn’t lose her—no one ever dies in a Razzle Dazzle film, unlike those awful Nicholas Sparks movies—but he cried.

It was the most romantic thing my fourteen-year-old heart had ever seen.

On top of the wet T-shirt being the raciest.

People picketed the studios over that film because it was too close to bare skin, which Razzle Dazzle never shows.

Hyacinth, my twin sister, preferred him in Inn the Know, a slightly older film with a younger Jonas starring as the teenage son of a single dad running a small inn. He had a romance with his teacher’s bookworm daughter while his dad fell in love with his principal.

The smolder, Hyacinth would always sigh. They should’ve picketed this one for that smolder.

But my point is—I’m very, very convinced at this point that I’m not supposed to be renting this house.

If Hayes himself doesn’t own it, his family does, and there’s no way in h-e-double hockey sticks, to quote the one and only time Jonas Rutherford ever came close to cussing on screen, that the Rutherford family would rent their coastal island mansion to random people for fifty dollars a night.

And here I am, not just staying here, but making an utter pigsty of the place.

For the record, yes, I would’ve picked up after myself before I checked out in two weeks. But I like the mess.

It’s the mess I need to make before I can put myself back together again, when I have to be organized for the school year.

This summer is supposed to be about me making all the messes and digging through them to find myself again. Trying new hobbies and getting reacquainted with old hobbies—like the watercolor kit I did yesterday and accidentally spilled all over the place in the kitchen—and reading for hours on the swing in the wildflower garden and riding the bike from the shed into town to buy flowers for myself and walking along the rocky shoreline and playing with Marshmallow.

Remembering who I am when I’m not Mrs. Chad Dixon. Analyzing how I ever got to be the woman who put up with being unhappy for so long because this is what marriage is, and you made a commitment, Begonia.

Getting a solid foundation back under myself so I never, ever, ever fall into those patterns again.

I wanted an adventure.

It appears I’m getting a different version, but it’ll still be an adventure.

As if it’ll matter, since Hayes apparently wants me to sign something agreeing to never talk about this. I’m assuming I won’t even be able to tell Hyacinth if I sign his non-disclosure agreement.

Is that weird?

Or is it a standard thing when the rich and famous find accidental guests in their homes?

How often do the rich and famous find accidental guests in their homes?

How did this even happen?

Three sharp knocks on the door pull me out of my head. “Yes?” I call.

“It’s been seventeen minutes,” Mr. Crankypants says.

“Can’t rush beauty,” I call back as I get a strange little rush in my heart at that bossy voice again. Then I wince as I process what I just said. “Or presentability, in some cases.”

“You have two minutes before I shut off the water and toss you off the balcony.”

I’d like to say I’m confident that he’s joking, but I don’t actually know if someone of his status would joke about that.

Money can buy anything, right? He could probably buy his way out of being guilty of murder.

“Almost done,” I call. “Are you ready to see the new and improved Begonia Fairchild? Gotta warn you, it’ll be surprising after what I looked like when we met.”

He doesn’t answer.

Apparently he doesn’t do small talk.

Or possibly that cold he seems to have is making him cranky.

I should definitely offer him a cup of my dad’s miracle tea, except I don’t have the ingredients with me, and I have a sneaking suspicion I wouldn’t be let back through the gate if I ran into town to pick things up.

I crank the water off, pop open the glass shower door, and reach for the towel.

My hand connects with the towel hook, but no towel.

It’s not on the ground.

It’s not on the heated towel rack across the bathroom.

In fact, all of the towels are gone.

So are my clothes.

“Marshmallow!”

My dog pokes his head through the doorway, tongue lolling happily like he’s not the reason the door’s gaping open.

“Where are the towels?” I ask him.

He plops his rear haunches down and keeps smiling that bright doggie grin at me.

“This is no time for hide and seek,” I tell him.

He leaps to his feet, barks once, and takes off out of the bathroom again.

“Dammit, dog, I put you outside,” Hayes snarls.