Summer at Seaside Cove (6 page)

Even her thundercloud frown couldn't hide the fact that she was pretty damn cute, any more than those wrinkly clothes masked the fact that she had more curves on her than a blackdiamond ski run. And those dimples flanking her full lips didn't hurt, either. But in his present mood, he didn't really give a damn how cute or curvy she might be.

At least not much.

He crossed his arms over his bare chest and glared at her. “
I've
been on a bender? Hey, black pot—kettle calling. You reek of vodka.” Okay, maybe
reek
was too strong a word—but he definitely smelled a trace of vodka—and he damn well knew what it smelled like. But he also caught a whiff of something kinda good, something sweet he couldn't quite put his finger on.

“That's because I slept in a chair.”

“Personally I find it pretty difficult to get good rest on a bar stool, but whatever floats your boat.”

“Not a bar stool—a
chair
.” Her tone indicated she thought he was three years old, which did nothing to soothe his annoyance. “A
folding
chair. Next door. At Paradise Lost. And let me tell you, it is really, really lost.”

“Ah—so you're the renter.”

“Yes. And you're the owner. I thought this place was supposed to ooze Southern hospitality.”

“I'm not from the South.”

“I'm picking up on that.”

“Good. You want hospitality? Here it is: Welcome to Seaside Cove. Now go away and come back at a more reasonable hour. Like noon.”

He made to close the door, but she slapped her palm against the wooden panel and wedged her curvy self in the opening. “I'm afraid not. We need to discuss this right now. After we've done so, believe me, I'll be more than happy to go away and leave you alone.” She looked past him. “Is your dog friendly?”

He glanced over his shoulder at Godiva, who was inching her way on her belly toward them, tail still swishing, tongue still lolling, her soft brown eyes filled with curiosity about this new person she was clearly dying to sniff. If
Nick
had been feeling friendly, he would have assured her that the only thing she had to fear from Godiva was getting licked to death.

Since he was feeling particularly
un
friendly, he said, “She's unpredictable.” Right—you never knew if you'd get a Godiva kiss on your arm or your leg or your neck. “Especially when she hasn't had her breakfast. So you'd better make this quick.”

The door-pounding, bell-ringing renter didn't look completely convinced that Godiva might pose a threat, no doubt because Godiva's hopeful eyes and wagging tail and happy little whines practically screamed,
I love you! Who are you? I love you! If I don't lick you and smell you, I'll just die! You're my new best friend! Did I mention that I love you?

She cleared her throat, then returned her attention to Nick. “The fact that you're the owner—that's why I'm here. To discuss the deplorable condition of your rental property.”

An invisible lightbulb went off over Nick's head as understanding seeped into his sluggish brain. Obviously Princess Vodka here wasn't down with the rustic conditions. He should have known the renter would be someone who didn't understand what “as is” meant. “There's nothing deplorable about Paradise Lost. You didn't have to sleep in a chair—there are beds you know.”

“Uh-huh. But none that look overly comfortable.”

“Maybe not, but they're better than sleeping on a folding chair.”

“Even after spending the night on a folding chair, I'm not necessarily convinced of that. Besides, I was looking out the window, waiting for you to come home.”

Oh, great. She was not only a door-pounding, bell-ringing whiner, but a stalker as well. “I take it the accommodations aren't to your liking.”

“That's putting it mildly. Those two missing bottom steps are a broken leg waiting to happen. Are you
looking
for a lawsuit?”

His gaze dropped to her legs, which looked long and curvy and definitely not broken. “Of course not—”

“And then there's the leaky roof. Water plopped on my head all night. No matter where I moved that folding chair, the damn drip seemed to follow. I'm lucky the ceiling didn't cave in on me. The furniture looks like something you picked up on the side of the road, the entire place doesn't look like it's been painted since the turn of the century, there's no dishwasher or air conditioner, and some idiot left a bag of clams in the sink.”

Clams . . . Nick's memory kicked in. He'd stopped at Paradise Lost three days ago on his way home from his most successful clamming expedition yet and set down his catch while he'd fixed the dripping bathroom faucet. He'd put them in the fridge . . . hadn't he? Damn—had he left them in the sink? He'd couldn't recall, and he'd completely forgotten about them until just now. But thinking about the fridge suddenly reminded him about the bottle he'd left in the freezer—

“You drank my vodka,” he accused, his voice filled with righteous indignation.

She looked at him as if he'd grown a third eye in the middle of his forehead. “Right after I tossed your clams. Believe me, I needed a drink.”

“You
threw away
my clams?” Jesus. She really was the renter from hell. “Why on earth would you do that?”

For several seconds she didn't speak—just sawed her jaw back and forth as if she was chewing glass. Then she drew a deep breath, which she released very slowly, scenting the air between them with a trace of vodka and . . . peanuts? . . . and said through gritted teeth, “Because they were
dead.
And they stunk bad enough to make my
eyes water.
” Each sentence grew in volume and added another layer of color to her cheeks. “And they were
dripping
that foul stench
everywhere
. It was
disgusting
. And in spite of wrapping my hands in
three
Piggly Wiggly bags, I may
never
get the
smell off me.
”

Wow. No doubt about it, this was one pissed-off woman. She looked like Vesuvius about to blow. In fact, there might even be steam wisping from her ears. Normally he was smart enough to step away from any female with murder in her eyes, but he wasn't feeling particularly brilliant this morning. Especially toward a woman who was a clam murderer.

“Look, whatever your name is—”

“Jamie Newman. How is it that you don't even know the name of the person you rented your rundown, crappy shack to?”

Okay, curvy and cute or not, this chick was stomping on his last nerve. Just as she'd done, he drew a calming breath, then continued, “Look, Jamie, I'm tired, cranky, sleep deprived, and in need of an IV drip of caffeine—”

“Well, that's what happens when you go off on a three-day bender,” she said without a lick of sympathy in her tone.

“What makes you think I was off on a bender?”

“Word gets around quick in a town this size. Are you saying you weren't?”

“I can't see how that's any of your business. Those clams, however, were
my
business. It took me hours to rake them, and they were fresh from the water when I put them in the fridge.” At least he
thought
he'd put them in the fridge. “Why did you kill them?”

“
I
didn't kill them. They were dead when I arrived. And they weren't in the
fridge
, they were in the
sink
. Do you have any idea what dead clams smell like?”

In spite of his annoyance, he had to concede that she had a point—which only irked him further. That, and the fact that he'd apparently not put his catch in the refrigerator at all. “Yeah, I do.” He cut his gaze toward Godiva, who'd bellied forward so her front paw now rested on his bare foot. “Godiva found one on the beach last week and rolled herself all over it in ecstasy. She thought she smelled swell, but it was gag worthy—and since that was from just one clam, I can imagine an entire bagful really reeked. So, sorry about that—my bad.”

She appeared unimpressed with his apology and merely raised her brows. “You named your dog
Godiva
?”

Godiva woofed once and licked her chops at the sound of her name. “She's a chocolate Lab,” Nick said. “And I like chocolate. You got a problem with that?” Yeah, 'cause if she did, he'd sic Godiva on her and Jamie Pain-in-the-Neck Newman would find herself slathered in doggie kisses.

Instead of answering his question, she asked, “Are you sober?”

“Are
you
?” he countered.

She blinked. “Of course. Why would you think I wasn't?”

“By your own admission, you stole my vodka and tossed back a few.”

“I didn't steal it. It was in my freezer—which, by the way, wasn't even working, due to a storm the night before I arrived, until I flipped the breaker switch. You're welcome.”

“Since I own the place, it's
my
freezer, and therefore
my
vodka.”

“Well, then I'll be sure to see that your property is returned to you as soon as possible. In the meantime, I'm stuck here for now and I want to know, for starters, when you plan to fix the steps and the leaky roof.”

“They're on my list of things to do.”

“Terrific. When? Because before I arrived would have been great.”

“You know, you're really demanding for someone who rented the place ‘as is.' You knew up front it wasn't a Ritz Carlton, and that repairs would be ongoing during your stay.”

A frown puckered her brow. “What are you talking about ‘as is'? And what do you mean ‘ongoing repairs'?”

“Did you
read
the rental agreement? All the terms were in there.”

Her frown deepened. “Of course I read the rental agreement and I assure you there was nothing that mentioned the poor condition of the house, the words ‘as is,' or ‘ongoing' repairs. Nor was any of that mentioned on the Seaside Cove Rentals website.”

She pursed her full lips and planted her hands on her hips. “And speaking of the website, you should be ashamed of yourself for so grossly misrepresenting the property there. Those photos must have been taken in 1972.”

Now it was Nick's turn to frown. “What photos are you talking about?”

“The ones of Paradise Lost looking all freshly painted and charming and pristine, with decent furniture. With a yard that actually contained grass. And a shower curtain that actually hung from the rod. And a staircase with a full set of steps.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. I've never seen any photos like that.”

“Really? Well, how lucky that I just happen to have a printout of the web page featuring them to refresh your apparently alcohol-soaked memory.”

“You have a printout? Wow, you sure are anal.”

She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of printer paper, which she thrust at him. “No, I'm
organized
. And frugal. Which means I don't like wasting money on things that aren't what they're advertised to be.”

Nick unfolded the paper and looked at a computer printout containing half a dozen grainy images of the exterior and interior of a cozy beach cottage. On the last exterior shot, a plaque that appeared brand new hung over the carport, proclaiming the house to be Paradise Lost.

He thrust the paper right back at her. “You Photoshopped those.”

“Right—because that's what I am—a photo forger whose fondest dream was to
pretend
that the cottage I rented for the entire summer was livable.”

“All I can say is that the photos I e-mailed to Jack Crawford for the website ad were taken only a couple weeks ago—and showed Paradise Lost as she is today—warts and all. I only put the place up for rent at his urging, and he told me it would probably be taken by some crusty fisherman type who just needed a place to flop between boat trips. It never occurred to me some princess would move in for the summer.”

Irritation and disbelief were written all over her face. “First of all, I'm
not
a princess. And secondly, warts and all is clearly
not
what was depicted on the website. Nor was there any mention of this ‘as is' nonsense.”

“That's impossible.”

“Are you calling me a
liar
?”

Given the fact that if looks could have chopped off heads, her expression would have decapitated him—and for all he knew maybe she was an ax murderer—he decided a bit of diplomacy might be in order. “I'm saying there's clearly been a misunderstanding.”

“Yes, there has. On
your
end. Do you have a computer? Let's check out the website right now.”

Nick wanted to check out the website right now like he wanted a bad rash, but since it obviously needed to be done, he might as well get it over with. “We can use my iPhone. I'll get it.” He considered closing the door on her while he did so, but a lifetime of good manners drilled into him by his mother had him stepping back and asking, “You want to step inside?”

She hesitated and then shrugged. “All right. Thanks.”

She crossed the threshold, stepping around Godiva, who was sprawled on the linoleum floor like a big brown carpet, happily gnawing on a rawhide treat.

“Looks like a bomb landed in here,” she commented, her gaze sweeping over the gutted kitchen, empty except for an ancient fridge.

“I'm renovating, making repairs. Putting in a new kitchen.”

Her gaze moved into the living area, taking in the doors leading to the bedrooms and the sliding doors that led to the screened porch that ran the length of the front of the house. “This place is laid out the same as Paradise Lost.”