Page 7 of Halloween Town

Best decision she could’ve made, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “And you ran here.”

She nodded. “I’m going to check in with my grandfather’s lawyer,” she told him, in an obvious attempt to sound tough.

“Be my guest,” he replied. “I’m sure he’ll be in his office on Monday morning.”

“Right. Or maybe I’ll call Luna and ask her to give me his contact details so I can talk to him this afternoon.”

Thom rested his left butt cheek on the edge of the table and swung his leg. “It might be quicker if you called your parents. They know the situation.”

She blanched, horrified at his suggestion and immediately shook her head. “Uh … I’m trying to avoid talking to them as long as possible,” she replied. When he asked why, she looked dumbfounded.

“Because I just ran out on a very expensive wedding, Boston’s wedding of the year. I’d like to delay talking to them for as long as I can. Possibly forever,” she glumly added.

Fair enough. Thom stood up, walked over to the kitchen door and opened it. He gestured for her to walk out. “Fine. Do whatever you need to do, but do it somewhere else.”

She looked from him to the door and back at him. Then her expression turned stubborn. “I’m not leaving until I know.”

He gripped the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb and closed his eyes. “Poppy, seriously, I am losing patience.”

“I’ve been on a bus in the world’s most uncomfortable wedding dress. I’ve had to endure about a million comments, some sympathetic, some mocking. I left my shoes in the bathroom of the bridal suite. A tourist thought I was playing dress-up and made me pose for photos. I am dirty and sweaty, and I have nothing but my goddamn cell phone. So, please, don’t talk to me about losing patience,” she told him, her eyes spitting blue fire. “This was my grandparents’ home. I am staying here until I know what’s what.”

“Call. Your. Parents,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I damn well won’t.”

“Then I will.”

“I won’t talk to them, and I won’t listen to their confirmation or denial, so we’re back to square one with the lawyer.”

“You are not staying here.”

“Fucking watch me do just that, Sheffield.”

Their eyes clashed and held, and for the first time in too long—months, maybe years—he felt a spark of something other than basic sexual awareness. Of interest, of well, shit, here you are. Someone interesting, head-tipping, party-in-my-pants attractive. Thom didn’t need to be attracted to his brother’s almost wife, to the grown-up, human version of the puppy that had followed him around. Wrapped up in silk or satin, she embodied the worst type of drama: romantic drama.

“Look, Poppy, my inn is not your refuge from drama, or starry-eyed stupidity. Take your reality show and leave.”

Her eyes narrowed, and he saw the fuck you in her eyes, the you maggot-infested son-of-a-bitch about to fall from her lips. What he didn’t see, surprisingly, was any measure of betrayal, heartbreak, or remorse for running out on her society wedding. What was all that about? And what, exactly, had happened?

Curiosity, something he thought he’d lost, bubbled again.

“I am not going anywhere until I see a deed of sale.”

He had a copy, but in her current mood, Thom knew she wasn’t prepared to believe anything he said or showed her.

Poppy swiped the bottle of water out of his hands, opened it, and chugged. She swallowed it down in record time, and Thom walked over to the fridge and pulled another from the door. He cracked it and handed it to her. Maybe she’d be more reasonable once she was properly hydrated.

He rubbed the back of his neck and ran through his options. The only properly furnished room in this multi-roomed house was his bedroom. He’d brought in a California King—he was a big guy and needed a decent bed after spending the day breaking his back—and a comfortable sofa, a bar fridge, and a desk. The en-suite bathroom had a working shower, toilet, and basin, and basically nothing else. To say it was functional was stretching the word. Renovating the bedrooms and bathrooms was way down his priority list. He was starting at the bottom and working his way up.

Basically, Poppy staying here was out of the question. Unfortunately, so was her staying anywhere else in H-Town. Because it was the opening weekend of the month-long Halloween festival, the town was full to overflowing and an utter nightmare.

The queues at his favorite coffee shop—Spirited Grounds—were twenty deep at any time of the day, and ordering a pizza from Il Fantasma now took forever. At least The Bar—the only non-Halloween themed bar in H-Town—was a safe haven from the craziness, and the hardware store was, mostly, a tourist-free zone.

H-Town during October was madness, and Thom tried to avoid it as much as possible. But crucially, all accommodation in town and in the surrounding towns had been booked out for months. There wasn’t a room, tent, or stable for rent within fifty miles. Since Thom was restoring the inn and planned on providing upmarket accommodation in time for next year’s bumper tourism season, he was pleased. Having Poppy in his kitchen right now? Not thrilled.

He had an inn to renovate, he was considering taking a consulting job with an old client, and he had a dog to keep him company. Talking of, where was his dog? He whistled, then heard the click of dog nails on wooden floors.

Felony, his three-year-old golden retriever, looking like he had absolutely no fucks to give, gave him a “what do you want now?” glare.