Somebody to Love. Kristan Higgins

gained from having seen her hysterical and in her panties.

       He gave her a look of his own. “Nothing I did was illegal, Parker. Your father had the right to do what he wanted with those trust funds, because you gave him that right. You signed papers letting him have full authority over every penny. And even if I’d wanted to say something—which I did—attorney-client privilege prevented me.”

       “Wow. You’re a great guy. Maybe my dad will give you a sticker.”

       He ignored that. “At any rate, my father was a builder. I worked on a construction crew summers when I was in college. Do you really want to kick me out because you don’t like me?”

       She felt her jaw locking. She’d be an idiot to send him away.

       He took her silence as protest. “Look. Aside from hauling all this crap to the dump, you’ll need to reshingle the entire exterior. The roof needs to be replaced, the gutter’s hanging off the front, the chimney is crumbling. I’m guessing there’s dry rot under the linoleum in the kitchen, the cupboards are pulling away from the walls, and the stairs down to the dock are a death trap. The back door frame is warped. You probably need some significant rewiring, not to mention a new paint job inside.” He paused. “I happen to find myself free this summer.”

       “Where would you stay?” she asked.

       “Here.”

       “Here? Where here? In the Harbor Suite?”

       “Actually, we can get a lot of this stuff cleared out pretty fast. I already have a Dumpster being delivered today.”

       He did? “How’d you do that?” she asked.

       “My uncle lined one up.”

       This summer was supposed to be about doing things on her own, a fresh start. The plan had been to take sheets off aging but lovely furniture and paint the sunroom. The plan was to meet George Clooney before his boat went down in a hundred-foot wave, have a fling, then welcome Nicky for a few weeks of blueberry picking and sailing.

       It was not to have her father’s minion living with her.

       But she hadn’t realized what she was up against. “Well, you can’t stay here. What about your uncle’s place?”

       “He lives in a one-bedroom apartment over the bar. I can get more work done if I’m here.”

       She didn’t comment.

       “Oh, come on, Parker,” he said, his voice low and scraping. “It’s not like we’re strangers.”

       She felt the tips of her ears practically burst into flame. Took a calming breath. “Fine. Stay. Thank you. You can report to Harry and ease your conscience over helping my father rob my son. I can’t say no, because I’m desperate and broke. But I don’t like it.”

       “Well, how’s this?” he said, his voice amiable. “We’ll acknowledge that if the situation were different, you’d kick me out. You’ll barely tolerate me, and only because your back is against the wall and you had a mouse in your pants. Deal?” He gave her a smug smile.

       Parker unclenched her jaw and glanced at her watch as she got off the hood of the car. James followed suit. “I’m going to the hardware store.”

       “You can have the bigger bedroom.”

       “You’re too kind.”

       “I get that a lot.” There was that smile again. Parker ignored it and started the engine. “You know where the hardware store is?” he asked.

       “I’ll find it,” she ground out, throwing the car into Reverse.

       Not going as planned. No, sir.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      WELL, SHE WASN’T HAPPY. He hadn’t expected her to be. But man oh man alive, this place was a mess. Three hours in, and James had thrown away a good ton of crap. He paused outside to wipe the sweat from his forehead and breathe in some fresh air. The Dumpster had been delivered right after she’d left, thanks to Dewey, who knew everyone. James had put quite a dent in the piles of crap in the house, starting with the bigger bedroom. The princess had slept in her car last night, he guessed, based on the comforter in the front seat. Probably wouldn’t want to do it again.

       A car pulled into the driveway, and a very luscious redheaded woman unfolded herself from the driver’s seat. “Jamie Cahill! How you’ve grown!”

       Holy shit. “Chantal?” Couldn’t be anyone else.

       “Your uncle told me you were back. Don’t you dare say you’ve forgotten me.”

       “Are you kidding? I think of you every night.”

       She laughed, and James smiled. Time hadn’t simply been kind to Chantal; it was in love with her. She’d been beautiful at age twenty-five; at fortyish, she was unbelievable. “It’s great to see you,” he said. “Please, God, you’re single.”

       “Sorry, baby boy. I’m married—to a much younger man, I might add—and I’m a mommy, even. A little boy named Luke, six months old. I’m nursing.” She raised an eyebrow, inviting James to look. And what was a guy to do but obey? He dropped his eyes to Chantal’s generous endowments, showcased in a very tight and low-cut blouse.

       “Lucky kid,” he murmured.

       “I won’t bore you with pictures, but he’s the love of my life. Okay, just one, since you begged.” She held out her phone and showed James a shot of a drooling, fat-cheeked baby. “And here’s another one. Isn’t he beautiful? Looks like his daddy.”

       “Cute,” James said. All babies tended to look the same to him, but then again, he didn’t spend a lot of time staring into cribs or strollers or whatever.

       “Oh, you look good enough to eat!” Chantal exclaimed. “Give us a hug.” She wrapped him in a soft embrace. And hey, she patted his ass, too, making him laugh. Still had quite the effect, Chantal. “So,” she said, releasing him, “you called Harbor Realty, and guess what I do on the side? Real estate. It’s your lucky day.”

       “In so many ways,” he murmured.

       “Show me what you got. In the house, not in your pants,” she said. “Which isn’t to say I don’t remember you fondly.”

       “Okay. Harry Welles—you heard of him, right?”

       “Another Wall Street scumbag, from what I hear.”

       “Yeah. Well, he bankrupted the family, and all his daughter has left is this house. From her mother’s side of the family. Julia Harrington was her great-aunt.”

       “Wow. Millionaire to shack-owner,” she murmured as they walked toward the front door.

       “Yeah. So she needs to flip it as soon as she can.” He opened the door for Chantal, who recoiled.

       “I’ll pass on the inside for now,” she said. “I’m guessing crappy insulation, maybe four entire electrical outlets and plenty of wildlife.”

       “You’re psychic.”

       “So how much money can your client spend on it? If we put on an addition, a master suite with sliders and a deck, a big bathroom with a Jacuzzi, gourmet kitchen, build a big patio into the hillside here, outdoor fireplace…we can get a gay couple in here faster than you can say, ‘Bar Harbor is unaffordable.’” Chantal licked her red-painted lips in anticipation.

       “She has about ten grand,” James said.

       “Well, shit, then.” She sighed. “There are back taxes on this place, did you know?”

       “No,” James said. Crap. If he’d known that, he could’ve paid them off. Why Parker didn’t, he had no idea. Then again, she didn’t even remember that she owned the house.