Page 48 of Dream House
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
She blinks at me. “You think you can open that screen door while holding a TV the size of a Great Dane?”
The man seated on the stool in front of her guffaws.
I grind my teeth.
For the record, my TV is not the size of a Great Dane. A boxer, maybe.
“Yep,” I grit out.
I catch her shrug as I pass her, but I notice she doesn’t pick up her comb and scissors. Her eyes are on me. I’m aware of little else as I balance the TV on one knee so I can unclench two fingers to grab the screen door handle.
Holy crap.
The old screen door creaks open a little, but the coiled metal spring yanks back with surprising strength. The Vizio isn’t heavy, just unwieldy. My grip slips, and I have to rebalance the TV.
Maybe it’s just the humid evening, but my face gets hot. I try again, but my pinky and ring fingers are nothing to the tensile strength of the old school coils. The door snaps back into frame with a rattle.
The asshole on the stool has the nerve to chuckle.
Fuck this shit.
I release the TV with my right hand and grip the handle while bouncing the Vizio on my right knee. But when I jerk the screen open, the damn TV pitches forward, and for one infuriating instant I’m sure I’m going to drop it. Then a hand materializes between me and the devil door and steadies the TV.
Over my right shoulder I see Stella has not only caught the Vizio, but she’s prying open the creaking screen door with a smug look on her face.
Damn.
It shouldn’t be possible, but smug looks sexy on her.
“It’s a tricky door,” Stella says, smirking.
I should find thatI-told-you-sotone annoying, but all I can focus on is the scent of her hair. She smells like the Sweet Olive tree at the edge of our property. The perfume of those lacy flowers always meant I was free. I could only smell them when I felt most myself.
I shake my head to clear this nonsense. “Thanks,” I mutter and then make my way inside.
Upstairs in my room, I can hear the sound of the bathtub filling next door. It’s weird to think I’ll be sharing that same bathroom with a bunch of strangers. Then again, Summer Field Camp was close quarters, and I shared a bathroom with the whole mostly-male crew. The memory of grimy showers and the smell of urinal cakes makes me shudder.
On second thought, maybe female roommates aren’t so bad.
I need to go back out to my truck to finish unloading, but I stall and connect my TV, killing time instead.
Okay, yes. I admit, I don’t want to be a sideshow for Stella Mouton and her stupid client. Ten minutes later, I open my door and stick my head out into the hall. My mystery roommate has shut off the water in the bathroom, so I strain my ears and try to pick up any sounds of chatter from the front porch.
Nothing.
I tell myself not to be such a wuss and head back down. The front door is now locked. A good sign. When I open it up, the porch is empty. No sign of Stella’s barbering.
At my Jeep, I’m reaching into the back seat to grab the few towels and blankets I own when a car slows to a stop on the road behind me.
I glance over my shoulder and find Stella Mouton behind the wheel of an old Honda Accord, staring at my ass. The windows are rolled down. A guy is sitting in the seat beside her, Pen is watching from the backseat, a wicked grin lighting up her face.
Maisy leans forward from beside Pen and waves at me. “Hi, Bark.”
“Hi, Daisy.” I wave back.
Stella looks over at her daughter and then back to me. Is that a reluctant smile?
