Chapter 67

Kayla was all smiles as she leaned her head out of her driver's side window to call out, "Hang on. I'll just grab my purse."

I tried to smile back.

Well, at least she wasn't crying anymore.

And I knew why. Against my better judgment, I'd agreed to let her pop into the house for just a few minutes to make sure that her things were still there and unmolested – by me, apparently.

Our plan was simple enough. We'd leave her car at the gas station and take mine to the house, where she could take a quick look around to ease her mind. Afterward, I'd drive her back.

Simple and quick.

In theory, anyway.

In spite of my nervousness, I tried to look on the bright side. I was doing a good deed, right?

And yet, when she emerged from her car, I felt my eyebrows furrow. Her clothes – or rather, lack of clothes – made me wonder what exactly she was thinking.

She was wearing a skimpy red bikini, with a black something-or-other that might be considered a skirt, if only it weren't so short and so sheer that it was mostly transparent.

On her feet were sassy white sandals with thick, chunky heels. Over her left shoulder was draped a long white purse with long leather fringes. As she opened my passenger's side door, she said, "You are such a life-saver."

I bit my lip. No, I was an idiot.

I hadn't even checked with Zane, but he had given me permission in a roundabout way. After all, he did say that if someone's name was on a box, they could have it. And I'd seen plenty of boxes with Kayla's name.

Still, I wasn't going to take any chances. "I hate to ask," I said, "but I can see your driver's license?"

Her smile vanished. "What?"

"Your driver's license," I repeated. "I just want to make sure that your name matches the name on the boxes."

"Why?" she said. "I'm not taking anything. I'm just making sure everything's still there."

"I know, but…" How to explain? "Zane left pretty clear instructions."

She gave an irritated sigh. "Oh, whatever." She pulled out her purse, and began digging through it. "It totally figures. He is such a prick."

It was then that the strangest thing happened. I felt my hands clench around the steering wheel, almost like her statement actually bothered me. But it couldn't bother me, because she had a point.

Zane was a prick.

Most of the time, anyway.

I pulled my hands off the wheel and tried not to think about it.

As for Kayla, she pulled out her driver's license and thrust it out in my direction. I took it from her hand and pulled it close to study the details.

Yup. It was all there. Kayla Hunt, 241 Longwood Drive – just like I'd seen on a whole bunch of moving boxes.

When I returned the license, she said, "So, are you satisfied?"

Not really. "Uh, yeah. Thanks."

Kayla glanced around. "Hey, I don't wanna be rude, but I'm kind of on a schedule here." She glanced down. "Pool party and all. Do you think we could get going?"

Well, that explained the clothes.

About leaving, she didn't have to ask me twice. The sooner we finished, the better.

Ten minutes later, we rolled through the gate without a hitch. When we reached the house, I pulled the car straight into the attached garage, cut the engine, and shut the garage door behind us.

The door was barely down before Kayla scrambled out of the car and into the house. Over her shoulder, she called, "I'm gonna check upstairs first, okay?"

I didn't want to be nosy. This was, after all, her stuff. But I did feel a certain responsibility for anything that might go wrong, so I scrambled after her, feeling more like a security guard than any kind of helper.

But if she minded, she didn't show it. Silently, I trailed behind her as she wandered from room to room, first upstairs, and then back to the main floor, where she took a quick look around and even opened a few boxes for good measure.

When we reached the final room – a small den near the front of the house – she said, "Well, it looks like it's all here."

"See?" I said, feeling the first hint of relief. "You didn't have anything to worry about."

She gave me an apologetic smile. "Sorry if I was kind of bitchy." She looked heavenward and said. "But Zane is such a prick."

And there it was again. That twinge of annoyance.

Damn it.

I made a noncommittal shrug, but said nothing in reply.

But Kayla was on a roll. She leaned against a Victorian roll-top desk and said, "Do you know, he's been giving me grief right from the start? God, I hate that guy."

This posed a troubling question. Did I hate him? No. Definitely not. In truth, I felt quite the opposite.

This wasn't good.

Across from me, Kayla was saying, "And don't get me started on the furniture."

I looked around. That's right. The furniture. The reminder was the perfect cold splash for the annoyingly warm feelings that kept creeping into my heart.

How could I keep forgetting? Zane hadn't only kicked them out. He'd kept their furniture, too.

Kayla gave an epic eye-roll. "You should've seen him on the night we moved. He was all like, 'Put it back. It's not yours.' And I was like, 'Fuck you, asshole.'"

I blinked. "Wait, what?"

She gave me a look. "What, you never heard the word 'asshole' before?"

"Uh…"

"Or was it the 'fuck' that bothered you?"

I gave a confused shake of my head. "It wasn't either one. I'm just trying to understand. If the furniture's not yours, whose is it?"

"It is ours." She glanced away. "Or, at least, it should've been."

"You mean yours and your dad's?"

She frowned. "What does my dad have to do with this?"

I froze. Oh, crap.

Still, hoping for the best, I said, "Because… he lived here, too?"

She gave me a look. "No, he didn't."

Uh-oh. This wasn't what I wanted to hear. Still, I summoned up a hopeful smile. "But we are talking about Bob, right?"

"Bob?" She laughed like I'd just said something funny. "He's not my dad."

"He's not?"

"No." Her laugh turned into a giggle. "But he does like it when I call him Daddy."