by Julia London
Not only was the kitchen a mess, but he noticed things he hadn’t noticed earlier—such as the stuffed beach bag on the couch. Two pairs of sandals looked as if they’d been kicked off her feet near the door and had scudded across the wood floor. And on the dining table, papers and books covered the entire surface.
A small tornado had torn through this house.
Harry didn’t see the tornado or hear her rattling around. He walked into the kitchen and dropped his chips on the only empty space on the counter, shaking his head in disbelief. That delectable smell was coming from the oven. He opened the fridge. She’d stuffed real food—fruits and vegetables, juices and yogurts—in and around the fast food containers he’d left through the week. Harry had to move aside several things to reach his beers, which, unsurprisingly, had been shoved to the back.
With a beer in hand, he wandered through the kitchen to the dining room and looked out at the gold and pink shimmer of sunset on the lake’s surface. The hills around the lake had turned into dark greens and purples with the setting sun, and lights were beginning to twinkle in them.
Harry took a swig of his beer. Now that the pool had been cleared of the little lunatic and her pal, he intended to go outside and soak in some of that sunset. But he happened to look down at the mess she’d left on the dining room table. A stack of typewritten papers caught his eye, the text marked up with pencil. Words had been lined through, others written above it. What was this? He picked up a page from the pile and read:
Sherri hadn’t thought about the first man she’d killed in a long time. There was no point to it, really—she’d always believed that people who looked back were unnecessarily sentimental. Conner had died, his death was ruled a suicide, and that was that.
She wanted to watch Sam die like she’d watched Connor die. That ass should never have ignored her texts. His death was going to be painful.
She was on her way to the little hardware store on 9th Avenue for plastic sheeting. They still did everything on paper there—untraceable—and bonus, there were no surveillance cameras. The knives and the acid would be bought in other old-school mom-and-pop shops that hadn’t upgraded their point of sale systems. Why were people so cheap, anyway? Wasn’t it fascinating that in a world where the United States could listen in on phone calls of world leaders, there were still stores that wrote receipts by hand? Idiots.
Sherri strode toward the subway entrance, but before she could reach it, her phone rang. She dug it out of her purse. “Hello?”
“Sherri?”
Her heart surged to her throat. Sam. She slowed her step and ducked to one side to avoid the sidewalk traffic. “Hey,” she said. Her heart was suddenly jackhammering in her chest, and for a tiny moment, she had the fear that Sam somehow knew what she was planning. “What’s up?”
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You sound a little winded.”
“Oh! I, ah . . . I was running.”
“Running?” He sounded confused. As well he should be, as Sherri had never run in her life.
“Yep. I’ve taken up running. Trying to drop a few LB’s.” For all she knew, he’d called the cops, and they were closing in on her now. She looked wildly about.
“You don’t need to lose any weight,” he said. “You look great, Sherri.”
Sherri’s breath caught; she slouched back against the brick wall. She thought she might love him all over again. “Sam, thank you,” she said, grinning now. She’d been so hasty in her decision to kill him! Maybe the woman she’d seen going into his apartment with him was just a friend. A consultant. A cousin. A landlord—
“I was calling to see if you want to get a drink sometime this week.”
“Ah . . . sure!” Sherri said. Of course she wanted to get a drink. She wanted to marry him, have his babies, never let him leave her sight. “When did you have in mind?”
“Tuesday? I’ve a got a late meeting but I could meet you at that bar you like in Astor Place.”
She didn’t like the bar at Astor Place. It wasn’t exactly a happening location. She’d only gone there because he’d asked her. But Sherri wasn’t going to let location ruin it, at least not this time. Sam was calling her and asking her out. She had misjudged everything! She could work with him, help him see what he did was wrong. And then she wouldn’t have to kill him.
Harry’s eyes felt like they were bulging out of his head. He didn’t know what to make of it—
“Hey!”
Startled, Harry jerked around. He hadn’t heard Lola come into the kitchen. She was wearing a short robe, and her wet hair was combed back. She was glaring at him with fire practically leaping out of her eyes as she strode toward him. Harry’s pulse jumped a notch and he dropped the pages like a guilty child.
“That’s mine!” she said angrily.
“Are you writing a book?” He sounded more incredulous than he felt—what he really wondered was what she intended to do with this . . . story.
“Maybe,” she said curtly. “But it’s none of your business.” She roughly brushed past him, forcing him to take a step back from the dining table. She picked up the pages he’d just read and shoved them into a file. With another glare, she whirled around and returned to the kitchen, pulled the oven open and removed a dish of what looked like macaroni and cheese. She placed it on a hot pad and began to spoon through it, distributing the heat. She glanced up at him, still frowning. “What?”
“What is that?” he asked.
“What does it look like? It’s lobster mac and cheese.”
Jesus, just cut his throat already—it would be far less painful than watching her devour it while his stomach rumbled helplessly. What did he have in the freezer, anyway—another Hungry-Man dinner?
A smile slowly took the place of her frown. “Would you like some lobster mac and cheese, Harry Westbrook?”
“No,” he said instantly. How did she kill the guys in the book anyway? Poison? But he couldn’t take his gaze from the dish, especially when she lifted the spoon and thick strands of cheese stretched up with it, tantalizing him.
“Are you sure? Because you can ask anyone—I make the best lobster mac and cheese around. And there’s plenty.”
“You made that for you,” he said, sounding as weak as he felt. “And for all I know, that’s how you kill guys who don’t respond to your texts.”
She smiled wickedly. “I would never kill a guy with poison. Too iffy and too obvious. I made this because I had the ingredients to make it. I like to cook, what can I say? Besides, I’m not eating any of it tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m going to a swanky party with Nolan.” She beamed at him, leaned across the bar, and whispered, “Amy Schumer might be there.”
Her eyes were shining with delight, and Harry was reminded of those charged moments in the utility room. But his stomach was far more interested in the mac and cheese than he was in sex or celebrity at the moment. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“I don’t mind at all.” She slid the pan closer, smiling as if people practically face-planted in a pan of something she made every day. “See? I’m not such a bad roommate.” She took a plate out of a cabinet behind her, heaped a pile of the casserole onto a plate, then set it before him on the bar. She fetched a spoon from a drawer and held it out to him. “Go to town, big guy.”
Harry’s stomach rumbled loudly in response, embarrassing him. He reluctantly accepted the spoon she offered him, slid onto a bar stool, and pulled the plate closer. He spooned an obscenely large amount of mac and cheese, said “Thank you,” and stuffed it into his mouth.
The moment that mac and cheese met his taste buds, Harry almost slid off the barstool with ecstasy. It was so damn good that he inadvertently moaned, then flushed slightly when she giggled with delight.
“You’re welcome,” she said. She opened the fridge, studied the contents. She apparently didn’t find what she wanted, because she shut the door and picked up an apple from a wooden bowl and bit into it
.
Harry had, embarrassingly, devoured his food in the time it took her to do this.
With her apple in one hand, Lola dipped the serving spoon into the dish and heaped more onto his plate, leaving a trail of half-moon macaroni soaked in cheese between the pan and his plate.
“No, I couldn’t,” he said unconvincingly, his hand on his belly.
“Sure you could,” she chirped.
Harry didn’t even draw a breath before diving back in. It was a feast for a king after the crap he’d been eating all week.
She leaned back against the counter, watching him lap up her food as she munched on her apple. Her scrutiny made him feel conspicuous; he slowed the shoveling. “So. You’re here to write a book,” he said, taking a breath. “The mystery has been solved.”
“Yep.” Her sunny smile was completely incongruent with the pages he’d read.
“Are you a published author?” he asked, wondering if he ought to know who she was. Not that he would know—he rarely read fiction. His reading consisted of magazines and manuals.
“Not yet. I’m trying to be. Sara offered me the place to see if I could do it.”
“You’re definitely doing it,” he said, glancing uneasily at the mess on the dining room table. “I wouldn’t have guessed writer.” The last part sort of slipped out before he realized it.
“Oh no? What would you have guessed?”
Harry shrugged. “I don’t know . . . maybe a teacher,” he said unconvincingly.
Lola blinked. And then she laughed. “Why? Because women are supposed to be teachers and nurses?”
“No. Just because.” Because he could picture her in front of a group of kids, in a cute dress with strawberries on the hem, handing out cookies. So sue him.
“I am so not a teacher. Now you have to tell me why you’re here.”
“I’m trying to get a bridge construction firm off the ground.” Lola had very thick, dark-brown lashes, he noticed, that framed pool-blue eyes. Which, incidentally, sat above a slight smattering of freckles across her cheeks.
“You’re like a builder or something?”
“Or something. I’m a civil engineer,” he said. “I sold my apartment in New York so I could buy the heavy equipment I need to make bids. Zach offered me a place to stay until I could get the business off the ground.”
“Wow,” she said, nodding as if she were impressed, and Harry’s Y chromosomes puffed up a little. “What kind of bridges are we talking?”
“You know, bridges that attach roads over water or rail yards or what have you.”
“Huh.” She tilted her head to one side. “That’s not what I would have guessed, either.”
He put down his spoon, leaned back. “Okay, I’ll bite. What would you have guessed?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe laundry operator?”
He smiled. “Interesting,” he said, nodding. “While it is true I like clean, folded clothes, I’m not sure what I’d be doing at a lake house if my business was laundry.”
“Maybe because you intend to open a laundry facility around here,” she suggested. “A big Laundromat with posters around the walls warning customers of the dangers of mildew.”
Harry’s smile widened. “There’s already a laundry facility. I pass it every day on my way out of town. I doubt East Beach could support two.”
“Oh, is there?” she said breezily. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been too busy writing a book.”
“The freckles on your face would argue that you’ve been hanging out at the pool. But okay, someone wrote the pages about a woman who’s going to kill some guy because he didn’t answer her text.”
“Oh come on, Harry,” she said airily. “Admit it—you don’t like it either when you text someone and they don’t answer right away.”
She was enjoying this conversation. And he was enjoying looking at her. She was prettier than he’d given her credit for in the beginning. She was a little quirky, definitely a hot mess, the author of a very strange book, and definitely, definitely pretty. “I admit it,” he said. “But would I kill them? No.”
“That’s why I’m not writing a book about you, Humdrum Harry.”
“Very funny,” he said, smiling. His gaze strayed, down the lapels of her bathrobe.
Lola took another bite of her apple. “Well, okay then, now that we’ve confessed our true occupations, I have to get ready for the party. By the way, I want to be a good roommate and formally acknowledge that I know you will totally flip out if I leave the kitchen like this,” she said, and pressed her hand to her heart and bowed. “There is no need to leave me a note. I promise to do it when I get home—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You fed me, and for that I am very grateful. I’ll clean up.”
“Really? You don’t mind?”
He shook his head.
“Yes!” she said, making a victory pump. “Thank you! I hate cleanup.”
One corner of his mouth tipped up. “No kidding.”
“Do yourself a favor,” she said as she started out of the kitchen. “You really don’t have to stack all the plates according to color and size, you know.”
“Yes, you do!” he called after her, and heard her laugh as she shut her door.
He looked at the mess he was going to have to clean up. That’s when he noticed the half-eaten apple she’d left on the counter. Lord.
An hour later, Harry had finally finished the kitchen and was sitting on the terrace, his feet up on a stool, a half-empty beer dangling from his hands. The window for working had passed; his brain had checked out for the day. He was idly thinking of throwing some wood onto the fire pit when he heard the click of heels behind him. He turned his head with as little effort as he could manage, but Lola made him sit up and look again.
Her shoulder length hair was all waves, and bangs brushed across her forehead in a very sultry way. She was wearing a buttery yellow halter dress made from silk or something like it. It had a bit of flounce in the hem just above her knee. And her legs . . . well, now, he hadn’t really paid them enough attention before now. She had some very shapely legs that disappeared under that skirt and just soared right on up. They looked especially good in the pair of shiny gold high heels she wore. She looked fantastic, utterly delectable, about as hot as a girl could be, and the male in him was taking notice.
He slowly gained his feet. He tried not to be a pig, tried not to look her up and down, but he couldn’t help himself. He shoved one hand into his jeans pocket. “Nice,” he said, nodding approvingly.
She flashed a dubious look as she draped a sweater over her arm. “Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously.” More than seriously. He hadn’t been this . . . attracted to a woman since Melissa. There was something about the yellow dress and the way it fit her that caused the pistons in him to crank.
“Would you mind?” she asked, and presented her bare back to him. The dress was zipped halfway up. “It’s a little tight and I can’t get it all the way.”
Harry looked at her back, the smooth skin. He could see her spine, her shoulder blades. He had a sudden and insane urge to kiss her back.
Lola glanced over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, and zipped her up, trying not to make actual contact. But it was impossible; his fingers brushed against the middle of her back, and a tiny little shiver went shooting up his fingertips.
“Thank you.” She turned back around, and ran her palm over her belly to smooth her dress. “I never know what to wear to a party. Do you? I mean what if I show up in a dress and everyone is sitting around in shorts and Tevas?” She paused, thinking, and bit her lower lip. “Maybe I should put on some something more casual—”
“No.”
Lola looked at him, surprised.
“You look great, Lola. Really . . . great,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets again. “If you’re going to a party with people in shorts and sandals, you’re out of their league.”
A smile of pleasure lit her face, and it occurred to Harry he’d not seen Melissa smile like that in a very long time. Had he neglected to tell her she was beautiful?
“Why, thank you, Harry Westbrook. That might be the nicest thing a guy has ever said to me. It’s amazing what a little mac and cheese can do for someone’s mood.” She was still smiling as she opened her tiny purse, took out a lipstick, and dabbed some on using her shadowy reflection in the glass door. “I’m going to go wait outside for my ride. Have a good night!”
“You, too.” He watched her walk into the house and across the living room, jogging up the two steps to the door. When the front door closed behind her, Harry shook his head. This roommate situation was highly precarious for a guy like him. When a woman cooked like she did and looked like that, it made him think of all the things a guy wasn’t supposed to think about his roommate.
With Lola gone, Harry moved into the living room and watched some baseball. And he kept watching baseball, long after the game had ceased to be interesting. He was bone-tired, yet he remained on the couch. Harry didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he was sort of waiting up for her. He wanted to see her in that yellow dress again.
What was he even thinking, anyway? He hardly knew her. He’d talked to her three or four times, and most of it had been a little infuriating. He just really liked that dress.
And that mac and cheese.
At half past eleven, he gave in to his body’s need for rest. He had a lot to do the next morning. Harry was dreaming about bridges and a crane that was rolling away from him when the distant ringing of a phone startled him awake.
He sat up, confused, and rubbed his face with his fingers. His cell phone was on the nightstand—whose phone was ringing? He got up, stumbled toward the sound of the phone wearing nothing but his boxers, and finally located it in the small office alcove off the kitchen. “Hello?” he said with gruff curiosity.