Like the insane stress and worry my life has become is gone, and I can just float until my mind clears and my thoughts buckle and I can start the day with a clean slate.
I feel a little less like destroying everything in my path by the time I pull myself out of the waves, towel off on the sand, and head up to the house. The sun is just breaking over the horizon, turning the pale grays and whites of my home into a multicolored canvas of pinks and blues and purples and golds.
I’m not expecting company when I let myself in through the kitchen door.
And I’m certainly not expecting Kenna, sitting right there at the kitchen island, her legs crossed primly in another pair of those damnably short shorts, her fingers busy with a pen, scratching across the pages of a little black book in scribbled dashes of ink.
I hadn’t realized she was an early riser, too. Also didn't know, last night, the implications of giving her free run of the house while I’m still in it.
She’s so completely focused she doesn’t even realize I’m there, though she’s got a hand free for Velvet in her lap. The cat shamelessly prostrates himself for her idly stroking hand. Mews prowls around the legs of the barstool, pushing himself up to rub against her little bare feet, occasionally being rewarded by a distracted scrunch of her toes between his ears.
Little traitors.
All it takes is one soft touch, and they’re fraternizing with the enemy.
If she keeps being nice to my cats, it'll be that much damn harder to tell her to fuck off and leave once I come back from Sonoma.
I linger in the doorway, but as I step inside Velvet perks up, jumping from her lap and trotting toward me, Mews on his heels. I’ve suddenly got two lumps of fur twined around my ankles, plus a pair of wide, startled green eyes watching me, looking so lost it’s not hard to tell she hadn’t even realized I was here.
Tearing my gaze from hers, I bend to stroke between the cats’ ears and down their backs, up to the tip of their tails. When I look back she’s watching me with a sort of quiet fondness.
Something I really don't need right now.
Especially because the last time I saw her with a little black book in her hands, she was prying where she didn’t belong.
Everything inside me hardens, the tension I’d sloughed off in the pool cutting through me again to leave me bristling. She blinks at me, then falters, her head bowing, a shamefaced flush across her cheeks.
She remembers, too. She doesn’t need to say it. The guilt in every line of her body speaks for her.
She remembers what she did. I made sure she'd never forget.
“Sorry,” she mumbles. “I haven’t had much inspiration for a while, and it just hit this morning. I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
I don’t want to talk to her, all of a sudden. But I need to.
It's business. And I need to keep it strictly business, yet there’s a hard knot in the pit of my stomach that’s thinking of anything but keeping professional as I close in, watching how her hair falls across her face.
She’s never been able to keep it wholly in a ponytail, soft chestnut strands always slipping free like they just can’t keep themselves from touching her irresistible lips and playing against her cheeks. Those tumbling sweeps of hair shadow her downswept eyes, now, and there’s an itching in my fingers that wants to brush her hair back, skim it across her brow, lift her chin until she looks at me with those eyes that always seem so innocent no matter what happens to her.
She’s not innocent, I remind myself sharply. There’s nothing innocent about her.
I clear my throat, shifting to lean against the counter, looking for that perfect neutral distance between too close and too far. Hell, even being in the same house with her is too close, but I can deal until I ship out for the gig. I rest my elbows on the counter and tell her, “We need to talk.”
Her head flies up. Her eyes widen. She’s so damned transparent, so guileless, that I can tell what she thinks I mean. That I want to talk about what happened back then, years ago.
She's flat out wrong. If the day ever comes when I'm ready to talk about that, shoot me first.
Before she opens her mouth, I cut her off. “About the fire,” I clarify. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
Her brows knit together. “What do you mean?”
I don’t say anything for several moments. I don’t know how to say this without either panicking her or sounding like a paranoid asshole, and I’m already in bona fide grumpy old man territory with my temper seething every time I have to chase those goddamn kids off my lawn.
Finally, “This isn’t the first incident,” I force out grudgingly. “It’s just been little things. People fucking with my shit. I wrote it off, blamed those rich brats screwing around on the beach, but this was dangerous. This fire could’ve hurt someone. That, to me, says foul play. And motive.”
She goes pale. “What kind of motive? Why would anyone ever –”
“I don’t know,” I bite off. “But it almost feels like someone’s trying to send a message.”
Kenna frowns. She doesn’t say anything, but she looks away, her gaze shuttering, and it’s not hard to tell she’s trying not to look frightened in front of me; trying to look tough.
It’s not hard to tell that she's scared, either. Not with the way she wraps her arms around her shoulders. I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it, but I’ve learned to read people’s body cues, the language of flesh that speaks louder than words.
It always gives intentions. Feelings. Fears. When people wrap their arms around themselves like that, they’re creating a defensive barrier and covering any places that feel exposed, vulnerable. They’re trying to make themselves small so they’re less of a target.
Right now, she’s trying to make herself so small absolutely nothing can hurt her.
Not like I did before.
I try not to shake my head openly. I don’t want to keep thinking these things, much less feeling them.
Especially not guilt.
It’s not my fault. None of this is, and a pair of big green eyes and soft dark lashes aren’t going to fucking change it.
I look away with a snarl. If I don’t look at her, I don’t have to feel this way. “Look,” I growl. “You don’t have to stay here alone. If it’s too much, you can pack up and go the fuck home. I’ll even pay for your tank of gas.”
Her breath catches. “No! Landon – I’ll be fine. It’ll be okay. Really. You’ve got your security system and if the alarm goes off I’ll just call the cops and hide. It’s just a bunch of dumb kids anyway, I'm sure. If I come out shrieking like a banshee they’ll probably pee themselves and run away screaming.”
My mouth is doing this thing. I don’t really like it.
It’s gone all twitchy, trying to curve upward like I actually want to smile at her visual, arms flailing and eyes wide, careening out my front door and at a bunch of terrified, screaming rich kids who think they're heirs to the universe.
A low growl bubbles up in my throat. I fold my arms over my chest with a grunt and force the corners of my mouth to turn downward. “Don’t know. This whole thing is probably a bad fucking idea. Let's be honest.”
“How bad can it be?”
“You don’t want to know.” I blow out an explosive sigh. “Fine. Whatever. Stay. But first, you’re going to memorize the security access code and the location of every intercom panel. I’m going to drill you before I go.”
“K. Am I supposed to salute, sir?”
For some unholy reason, my dick throbs, right before I remember this is no joke.
“Don’t be a brat. Listen.” I fling her a glare, but she’s smiling in that impudent-yet-shy little way that makes her such a fascinating mess of appealing contradictions. “Every intercom has emergency police call buttons. I’ll leave one of my guys from Enguard, too. He’ll do regular patrols a couple times a day. If you’re really convinced you want to do this.”