: Chapter 2

Begonia Fairchild, aka a woman who would like to stop regretting every last decision in her life. Any day now. Really…

Go on a post-divorce retreat and spoil yourself in a place without internet or cell signal so your mother can’t reach you for a couple weeks, I told myself. Look, there’s a lovely beach mansion rental miraculously in your budget that just came available. It must be fate, I told myself.

And it was.

For two glorious days.

Now?

Now, I’m interrogating an intruder while my dog holds him against a closet wall, with no cell service to call the police, and the full knowledge that my dog will most likely stop growling any second now because he is truly the world’s worst guard dog, and the last bit of leverage I have against this mansion-invading murderer will be gone.

“Who are you? And don’t pull any of that arrogant you should know who I am because I’m so important baloney,” I order the man currently held hostage by my dog between clothing racks in a corner of the massive closet.

What kind of a bathroom has four different doors?

This one.

That’s what kind of bathroom.

And it was cool yesterday, when I was renting a beach mansion with a bathroom so large it has two closets and a private hidden sitting room, but today, when I needed to make a spur of the moment decision about which of the four doors to lunge toward, I went the wrong way, and now I’m trapped in a closet with an intruder who’s glaring at me like I’m in the wrong.

I have two weapons at my disposal.

One’s the hair dryer, which is only scary if you’ve ever had one short-circuit and almost catch your hair on fire while using it, and the other is my phone, which gets no signal in this house—thank you, obscure wireless plan—and which I’m finally able to silence inside the pocket of this robe, killing Ariana Grande’s voice probably as surely as this man is about to murder me.

“My name is Hayes Rutherford, and this is my house.” His voice is quiet and controlled, and he has a commanding air about him that might be the tux—side note, who breaks into an island mansion in a tux?—or it might be that anyone named Hayes Rutherford innately carries around an air of importance.

Why does that name sound familiar?

And why does the fact that he claims that’s his name immediately assure me that he’s not going to kill me?

Probably because if he were planning on killing me, he’d tell me his name was Freddy Krueger or Mr. Death or Chad, because god knows I’ve had enough Chads in my life. The universe would definitely send a Chad to murder me.

But this man—Hayes Rutherford—is staring at me expectantly as though he’s just answered every last one of my questions, and while the tic in his jaw suggests he’d like to strangle me with the cord on this hair dryer, the rest of his expression says I am entirely over this bullshit.

He’s not old. Maybe upper thirties, early forties at most, based on the lines at the edges of his eyes and the strands of silver dotting his dark hair rather than overtaking it. He’s clearly in good shape. No fluff hanging over his belt, his rolled-up shirtsleeves showing off what I’d call forearm porn in any other circumstances, posture straight, tendons straining in his neck.

And there’s a single lock of hair falling across his broad forehead like it’s tired of behaving, or possibly it just doesn’t have any fucks left to give about doing what it’s supposed to do.

Are those one and the same?

I don’t know.

But I do know I should’ve been enjoying cheesecake for breakfast right now, and if I don’t get this hair dye out of my hair soon, there’ll be no chance of I didn’t see you standing there, Begonia ever again, because my hair will glow so bright, astronauts could see it from Mars.

As if that’s my biggest worry when there’s an intruder trapping me in a closet.

If I try to dash out of here, Marshmallow will think it’s playtime, and I give myself a fifty-fifty shot of getting through the door before this Hayes Rutherford person attacks.

And then it clicks. “Oh my god, Hayes Rutherford. Like the president, but backwards. Did your parents do that on purpose?”

He blinks one slow blink at me, and I get the impression no one has ever asked him that in his entire life.

Note to self: Do not make jokes about presidents’ names with a burglar who might have murder on his mind.

Other note to self: If I’m living out a horror flick, I am definitely the first victim. It’s always the vain one who gets it first, which is so stupid, because I’m not vain. I’m having a single morning of pampering myself in a luxury bathroom. This has happened approximately five other times before in my life. The pampering part, I mean. Not the luxury bathroom part. I’m usually pampering myself in a bathroom a third of the size of this closet. It is definitely a first for a luxury bathroom.

And one final note to self: I’m growing more and more confident by the second that he’s not planning to murder me. But I still don’t like this situation.

Marshmallow, my Shiloh shepherd, is slowly calming down. I have maybe twenty seconds before this Hayes Rutherford person realizes the dog’s more likely to flip the lights off and shut the door in here than he is to actually bite.

Poor Marshmallow.

His best wasn’t quite what they were looking for in service dog school.

“Yes,” Hayes Rutherford finally says. “That’s exactly it. My parents have a presidential sense of humor.”

“You’re lying.”

He makes a face like there’s a fly attacking his nose. “How did you get in here?”

“With the code. I rented this house for two weeks. How did you get in here?”

“Where did you rent this house?”

Have I mentioned that I’m over men? Because I am so over men. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’ve answered your question six times. I own this house. Where did you rent it?”

“Vacation rental site. And you answered that question twice, which doesn’t make me believe it any more than I did the first time. How do you have a vacation rental house that you don’t know is a vacation rental house?”

Something else flickers in his eyes—annoyance, I think—and for the first time since he nearly gave me a heart attack in the bathroom, I realize he might actually own this house, and there’s a reasonable chance I’m not supposed to be here.

Marshmallow seems to realize it too. He tilts his head, goes back on his haunches, and gives a final harumph.

It’s a harumph of of course you should’ve known renting this house for fifty bucks a night was too good to be true, Begonia. He lies down and curls one paw under his chest.

I cut a glance at the row of suits, shirts, and jeans lined up neatly on hangers in the closet. The dresser in the bedroom is full of men’s underwear and socks and the funniest assortment of pajama pants. There’s a study on the main floor, stocked with books and family photos that I haven’t looked at closely, because I assumed it was merely ornamental fluff to go along with the posh feel of the rest of the house.

But is this man in those photos?

Is this really his house?

It did seem odd that there were clothes and personal effects scattered about, but then, the last time I did a vacation rental, it was me and four of my college girlfriends renting a place in Panama City Beach, and not a swanky mansion like this. It made sense that popular spring break destinations would be as sparsely furnished as possible, given that it would usually be college kids pooling pennies to rent them, and that upscale luxury homes on quaint islands off the coast of Maine would have more amenities.

But again—fifty bucks a night.

When the listing said unexpected vacancy, special deal, I should’ve known.

I really should’ve known.

Am I—am I here illegally?

Welp.

I wanted an adventure.

Looks like I’m getting one. Might come with a mugshot.

My mother will love that.

But I have a vacation rental agreement. I can’t get arrested for trespassing when I have a rental agreement.

Can I?

Am I responsible if I didn’t know I signed a fraudulent agreement?

“Will you please put that damned hair dryer down?” he mutters. “And for god’s sake, tie the robe.”

I look down, squeak, then jerk my head back up while I aim the hair dryer at him and try to pull the two sides of the robe together with my other hand. I’m standing here with my cooch hanging out and at least one nipple pointing at him.

“Turn around.”

He aims his eyeballs at the ceiling. I yank the robe shut, tie it, then aim the blow dryer at him once again. “How do I know you’re the owner? What if you just know the owner? Or what if you’re casing the joint to figure out when the house will be empty next?”

“You’ve found me out. I’m a burglar. I’m the tuxedo burglar, and I only burgle while wearing last night’s formal wear. Whatever shall I take first?”

“Sarcasm is not attractive on you.”

“I don’t believe you’re in any condition to make observations about anyone else’s attractiveness.”

I gasp. Did he just—he did.

He called me ugly. “Marshmallow, bite him in the balls.”

My dog lifts his head, bites the edge of a pair of jeans, pulls them off the hanger, and delivers them to my feet.

My intruder—Hayes—makes that face again like he’s considering all the bad decisions he’s made in life that led him to this moment.

Or possibly I’m projecting.

But is this a bad moment? Does it have to be a bad moment? “Marshmallow, you know those don’t fit my hips. If you want to help me dress, get something out of my suitcase.”

My dog grins at me. This is his favorite game. Look what I know how to do, Mommy.

Hayes squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need to see a copy of this rental agreement.”

There’s nothing like being an obvious inconvenience to a man to make a woman believe his original intention wasn’t murder. Not saying I won’t annoy him enough that he’ll want to hurt me for other reasons—my ex-husband says I have a gift—but at the moment, I feel weirdly safe.

“It’s in my email on my phone. And if you’re not in the family pictures downstairs, I’m calling the police. I’m happy to work this out with you, but I need a show of good faith. You have to let me get dressed and cleaned up, and then I’ll show you the agreement.”

His nose twitches.

Because he’s afraid of the police? Does he come here to get in trouble? Are those not family photos downstairs? I didn’t look very closely in the study, because it felt wrong to work on watercolors in a room where I could’ve caused real damage if Marshmallow decided to help, and while I adore looking at family photos, I assumed they were staged and not the actual family that lives here.

“You have five minutes to get dressed and meet me downstairs with this rental agreement, or I’ll be the one calling the police. Are we clear?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Five.”

“Fifteen.”

“Five.”

“Thirty.”

“Three.” He pulls a phone from his pocket, like he’s about to dial the police now.

And that’s when my dog decides it’s playtime.

I see it coming in slow motion. Marshmallow’s eyes landing on that phone. His brain clicking. Chew toy! Chew toy! His eyes light up, his jaw opens, his back legs engage, and in one quick snap, he’s stolen the phone.

And here we go. “Marshmallow!”

My hundred-pound dog pivots, launches forward, dashes from the carpeted closet to the tile-floored bathroom, skitters, gets his balance back, and sprints away.

And Hayes Rutherford, Mr. Fancy Pants with bloodshot eyes and a tic in his jaw and flaring nostrils and a stick up his butt—though maybe that’s not entirely his fault—turns the kind of glare on me that would’ve incinerated me on the spot a year ago before he takes off after my dog.