Chapter 5—Tripped Up
Tyler looked down at the random pieces of paper scattered on the rolltop desk. Startling numbers swam across the old-fashioned ledger pages, painting a more dismal picture than he’d ever imagined.
Jim Miller, the attorney, had failed to mention his uncle’s extreme financial straits. What Art owed could bankrupt a small country. He’d be lucky to realize one penny out of this money-sucking monstrosity based on the liens and mortgages on the property. In fact, in this economy, the value could very well be upside down. No wonder Uncle Art dumped it on him rather than his cronies and purple lady. Only Artie had no way of knowing that Tyler wasn’t exactly flush with cash, either.
What a fucking mess.
He could walk out right now and leave it to the vultures to pick the bones clean. Let Lavender and the bros deal with the disaster.
Tyler sighed and massaged the back of his stiff neck with one hand. His problems weighed him down. He still hadn’t heard anything on possible charges related to his traffic incident. The cop claimed he’d assaulted an officer, even though Tyler never used his fists, only his big mouth. That worst-case scenario would catapult the press into a feeding frenzy, the NFL into punishment mode, and the Steelheads front office into a panic. He’d be up a fucking creek, possibly fined to the hilt, and wasting his Super Bowl bonus money on attorney fees and spin doctors. Add to that the rumors about drug and alcohol rehab and the alleged DUI.
Crap. He stood and stretched, grabbed a coat, and walked out the door, needing a break.
Tyler hunkered down against the pelting rain, wrapped his raincoat around him, and trudged out to the mailbox. Shoving the mail under his coat, he hurried back to the house and slammed the heavy front door to keep out the elements. After shedding his wet coat, he hung it on a peg near the door. Immediately, a puddle formed below it. Shaking his head, he spread the mail on the kitchen counter. Since few people even knew where he was, the mail consisted of junk and stuff his sisters forwarded from his Seattle water-view condo.
Cass’s sloppy handwriting was sloshed all over the front of a padded envelope. He ripped it open. He withdrew a small box, already knowing what was inside—her engagement ring. He opened the box and a huge diamond winked at him as if it knew something he didn’t.
Tyler turned it over in his hand, examining it from all angles, and waited. Waited for the heart-wrenching sorrow, the devastation, the sense of loss. All those painful feelings he’d felt at eighteen when his father died suddenly, the worst loss of his life. Or when Ryan died, even Uncle Art. Surely the loss of his fiancée would compare to those losses.
It didn’t.
He felt…nothing. Except an odd relief, an ease of pressure, like slowly letting the air out of a balloon. The same feeling he’d felt after winning this last Super Bowl.
Like oil and water, he and Cass had broken up on a weekly basis since they’d met their freshman year of college. The make-up sex had been worth it, until lately. In fact, Tyler would be the first to admit that he’d proposed to her because he thought a ring would fix what was wrong between them. Maybe even what was broken inside him. Only Cass hadn’t held the key.
There was something final and certain about their breakup this time. They were done, and he knew it, as sure as she’d known it when he’d committed to staying on the island.
Marriage had never been in the cards for him. After growing up in a family only seen in 1950s sitcoms, he’d already known he’d never be able to duplicate what his parents had together. Why try?
He couldn’t fix a dying teenage boy, a kid who fought for life and didn’t deserve to die. Tyler, who’d once considered himself invincible, couldn’t give Ryan the one thing he’d wanted most besides a future. The fucking unfairness of it all ate him up inside, made all his problems seem petty in comparison. Even anonymously donating one million in cash to cancer research hadn’t made Tyler feel worthwhile.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.
He hated feeling helpless. Regardless, he might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t a quitter. Not once he’d made up his mind. He’d see himself through this mess, and he’d do Ryan proud.
Tyler punched buttons on the thermostat, but the old furnace didn’t fire up. Damn. It was freezing butt cold in this drafty old dump. He grabbed his cell phone on the off chance he’d miraculously have service. No such luck. He’d have to drive into Friday Harbor to call a repairman. While he was at it, he’d call the damn phone company again, and the satellite TV service. Not to mention a plumber to look at the leak in the kitchen and a roofer to repair the leaks in the roof.
His foul mood got fouler. Isolation, boredom, and frustration didn’t improve his temper one bit. Hell, he couldn’t even surf the internet or watch a game. Yanking on a sweatshirt, he stalked into the library to build a fire.
“Off the furniture, little shit, or you’ll be sleeping on a hay bale in the barn.” Hands on hips, legs braced apart, Tyler stared down the cat. He was itching for a good fight. It looked like he’d settle for a cat as his opponent. The cat stared back, blinked his green eyes, and yawned. The little shit stood, annoyed at having his nap interrupted, yawned, stretched, and turned a small circle. Settling into the overstuffed armchair, he kept his back to Tyler.
He’d just been flipped off by an orange furball, an uninvited non-guest in his house. “Get off the fucking chair.”
No response, not even a twitch of an ear. Bending down, he reached for the interloper. The crazy bastard struck him as fast as a rattler strikes a field mouse. Tyler yelped and jumped back, holding a bloodied hand.
“Damn it! Fucking feline. I knew I hated cats. Worthless little piece of fur-spreading vermin.”
The cat stalked off, irritated about God knew what.
It was time that cat learned this wasn’t his house. Grabbing his leather jacket slung over the back of the couch, Tyler dropped the coat over the feline, wrapping it around the little body.
All hell broke loose. The thing fought like a cougar, not an ordinary house cat. Its little legs churned like pistons, claws ripping his coat to shreds. Its body twisted inside the coat as it yowled.
Ty would’ve preferred taking his chances in a cage with a UFC champion. He held on for all he was worth, hurried to the door, opened it far enough to deposit the rabid, coat-wrapped cat on the porch, and slammed it shut. Panting for breath, he leaned against the door.
Sacrificing a designer leather jacket was a small price to pay for not being maimed for life.
He’d won this battle.
* * * * *
Lavender stretched in her bed and opened her eyes a crack. Sun poured through the window, a rare sight compared to the rain of the past few weeks.
As she cuddled under the covers for a few more minutes of sleep, her mind drifted to the jock next door. She cringed as she recalled handing him her phone number.
She’d been dropped into a dilemma of her own making—hers and Art’s. Damned if she did, and damned if she didn’t. She needed Tyler to leave before the ninety days ended. Then the brothers and she could inherit and follow through on Art’s dreams. Yet, if he did forfeit, she doubted they could afford to keep the place in its present state, let alone fix it up.
Tyler could afford to do that, but he’d as good as said he wouldn’t. Unless she found a way to persuade him. Lavender stopped that thought right there.
She might have a weakness for gorgeous bad boys, but her peace of mind revolved around not indulging her libido. Besides, her various relationships with athletes over the years never led to anything but heartache.
Lavender sighed. Just wait until her mother got wind of her new neighbor.
Her mother didn’t exactly like jocks and would be worried for her daughter when she found out one lived next door. And the worst kind—a football player. Not just any football player, but one involved in a recent scandal hours after winning it all.
Mom would probably mount a community protest. At the least, she’d slap a chastity belt on her wild-at-times daughter, while her stepfather stood guard with a shotgun. Lavender chuckled at the picture that presented. Okay, probably not that extreme.
Not to worry, Mom. As badly as she wanted to save the mansion, she wouldn’t go that far.
Then she heard it.
The cat. Yowling somewhere outside. His bitching came through loud and clear, and he was pissed.
All winter the finicky cat next door bitched day and night about the quality of his living arrangements, demanding his house cat status back. In the short time Tyler Harris had lived in the old mansion, he’d ignored the animal, which was why she’d finally intervened on the cat’s behalf yesterday.
Harris behaved exactly as she’d expected the arrogant jock to behave. Lucky her. Why couldn’t he have been a marine biologist or an artist, even a plumber? But a football player? Damn. What a subversive twist of fate. She’d had enough of jocks to last a lifetime, especially one who didn’t take his responsibilities seriously.
He’d been around long enough to shoulder his responsibilities, namely the animal he’d inherited.
After pulling on her clothes, she walked outside. She didn’t see the cat anywhere and headed to her neighbor’s. The gated estate didn’t exactly invite strangers, but she ignored the No Trespassing sign like always and slid through a gap in their shared fence line. Once on the other side, she traipsed across the scruffy lawn overrun with weeds. The three-story craftsman mansion dominated its surroundings; even the old madronas and cedars flanking it seemed small by comparison. Despite its need of a good coat of paint, among other repairs, passersby on the nearby country road always slowed to stare at the impressive structure, the largest of three such structures on this particular county road, Old Mansion Lane. As told by island historians, three good friends and Seattle business partners each built mansions side by side on Madrona Island back in the early 1900s as escapes from the pressures of city life.
Grooming himself on a bench swing under the wraparound porch sat the fat orange tabby cat. As soon as he saw her, he launched into another litany of complaints. Lavender shook her head and rolled her eyes. The cat had attitude. He was a perfect match for the infamous quarterback living behind these walls.
The feline bitched in earnest, bombarding her with his grievances
“Damn, you’re a drama queen. Well, hang in there, buddy. Lavender’s gonna fix everything.”
The cat smirked, happy to have his way.
If she expected any peace, she’d need to have another confrontation with Tyler Harris.
Bracing herself, she brought up her hand to rap on the door.
* * * * *
Tyler hesitated and stared at the door. The cat’s yowling had stopped, which made him suspicious. Surely, the animal was plotting its next move. He frowned and pressed his ear against the solid wood door and listened. Nothing. Not a sound.
The little shit probably ran over to complain to the neighbor. Next thing he knew, she’d be calling animal control, and it’d be all over the internet and ESPN. He didn’t give a damn what the press said about him in most cases, but he didn’t abuse women or animals, nor did he drive drunk or do drugs. Ever. End of story.
To keep the gossip mags at bay, Tyler yanked open the door at the exact time purple lady raised her hand to knock. Instead, she rapped on his chest. A grin spread across his face as he stared down at her fist frozen in mid-knock on his breastbone. He grabbed her hand in case she decided to punch him in the nuts or something. His eyes locked with her startling brown ones. Unruly red hair framed her pale face with its sprinkling of freckles. His fingers itched to explore the auburn mass of curls.
Tyler gripped her hand tighter. Her palm felt warm against his. His long fingers wrapped around her small hand, engulfing it, making it look fragile. An overwhelming urge to lift her hand to his lips and kiss it like a chivalrous gentleman of old passed through him. As if she read his mind, she wrenched her hand away.
He braced for round two with his diminutive neighbor with the big attitude.
“Your cat wants in.” Lavender got all huffy and indignant, like she was the cat’s protector or something.
“I kicked him out.”
“Why? Can’t you see how traumatized he is?”
“He’s traumatized?” Tyler glanced at the fat tabby grooming himself on the porch swing. He held up his bandaged hand.
She snorted and ignored his injuries. “You need to be a more responsible pet owner.”
“Since when are you my conscience?”
“Someone needs to be. Take care of your cat, or I’ll be your worst nightmare.”
“You already are.” He chuckled, goading her for the pure devilment of it.
“Don’t you forget it, jock boy. Why don’t you go back to the city where you belong?”
“What? And miss the company of a sweet thing such as yourself? Not on your life.”
Turning, she stomped off. Tyler stood in the doorway and watched her go. They might not be the best of friends, but damn, she turned him on when she got mad like that.
The cat stalked past him, fucking tail stuck straight up, and interrupted his daydream of Lavender in the buff. The orange shit tossed a screw-you look over one furry orange shoulder and disappeared into the living room. Tyler followed him, knowing exactly what he’d discover.
In front of the massive stone and marble fireplace, the cat stretched out on a mission-style leather couch, one of the mansion’s original pieces of furniture. It’d survived over one hundred years.
Tyler hoped like hell it survived an ordinary house cat with the attitude of a cougar.