I check on the second round of biscuits in the oven and am grateful for the distraction as I take them out and turn the oven off. I know getting married is the simplest way we can both have the lives we want, but clearly it isn’t going to be easy, no matter what either of us have said. And there’s one important thing we haven’t talked about when it comes to this union.
“Where am I going to live?” I ask as calmly as I can.
King grunts. “Wherever you want.”
“If we’re married…”
Clenching his jaw, he glances around his house as if it might have a solution that isn’t the two of us living together. “Right. Logically, you would live here with me.”
“I can take a guest room.”
“No, you can’t.”
“It’s not like anyone is going to be coming over to see where I sleep.”
“Maybe not, but…” He rubs the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish. “I don’t have a guest room.”
I frown. “Then what are those two other rooms down the hall?” I noticed them when I went searching for the bathroom, which was the first door I came across, and it took all of my self-discipline to not go snooping through King’s house while he was passed out on the bed. Maybe I should have snooped.
He coughs, folding his arms. “At the moment? They’re construction zones. I’ve been remodeling, but they haven’t been a priority lately.”
Well that complicates things. I am for sure not sharing a bed with King, married or not. We can be adults about things, but I can’t let proximity muddy the waters of this sham marriage. As a chronic sleep-walker with a lifelong tendency to cuddle anything nearby, I am not about to put myself anywhere near the man who hates me. He’d likely push me off the bed if I got too close.
“I guess I can sleep on the couch…” I say it with a casualness I don’t feel. Maybe when I was twenty I could have done it, but over the last couple of years I’ve gotten used to sleeping on a mattress that cost more than three months’ rent.
King barks out a short laugh. “Have fun with that, though I don’t recommend it.”
“Well, then what do you suggest? Share your bed?”
As the color drains from his face, he brings his plate to the sink and looks out into the wild backyard. “I have a pool house. It’s been a couple of years since I last went in there, but…”
Oh. An actual solution. That’s good. “Does this pool house have a bed?”
King looks back at me, and I really don’t like the look of mischief in his eyes. Something tells me he’s not going to make any of this easy on me.
Chapter Six
King
Grabbing a couple more biscuits, I lead Georgie out the backyard and hope nothing has taken up residence in the pool house. When I first bought this place a few years ago, the pool house had been inhabited by a family of raccoons who were none too pleased to be evicted. I guessed the old owners, a retired couple who only came to the house every so often, didn’t bother with the structure at the back of the property and had no idea they had furry little squatters.
Originally, I planned to rent out the pool house, since I have great access to a calm beach across the street that would be a draw to tourists, but so many other things kept me busy. Updating the surf shop, training other instructors during the off season, renovating first the kitchen and master and then the other bedrooms, helping Uncle Bill when he started getting sick…
Prince Harry lumbers over to the gate of his pen as soon as he sees me, his dark eyes examining Georgie behind me with a bit too much interest in the dimming light of dusk. She hasn’t noticed the llama yet, too busy taking in the rest of the yard, and I’m not about to say anything. Instead, I hold out one of the biscuits to show him my offering and then duck just in time as the mad beast spits in appreciation of my gift.
Georgie screams when the wad of saliva splatters her in the face.
I snort. “Sorry, I should have warned you that he’s…broken.” Normally, llamas spit when they’re agitated or angry as a sort of defense mechanism, but not Prince Harry. This guy thinks it’s a way to show affection.
Now that he’s unloaded his slimy gift, I hold the biscuit closer and smile when he grabs it excitedly. “Good boy.”
Georgie scrubs her face with her sleeve, shuddering and looking like she’s on the verge of running away as she stares at the five and a half feet of llama a few feet away from her. “Why do you have a giant goat?”
Patting Prince Harry’s strong neck, I take a bite of the other biscuit and wish I grabbed more because I’m still starving. I’m loath to mention it to her, but she’s gotten way better than when she was a teen. Maybe it’s just that anything is better than a freezer meal. “Prince Harry is clearly a llama,” I say through a mouthful of buttery goodness. “And he was Uncle Bill’s.”
“Oh.” Georgie relaxes a bit. “I forgot how much he liked collecting animals.”
I’ve found homes for most of my uncle’s menagerie, but Prince Harry is a tough one, given he is huge, borderline suicidal, and unconventional in every way. But I think a part of me hasn’t been able to part with the last of the animals Bill collected, just like it is going to be nearly impossible to fully let go of the bakery.
Georgie may have agreed to limit her changes, but I know her. She’ll stick to her promise for a little while, and then her stubborn nature will kick in and she’ll forget everything I’ve said to her about preserving Bill’s legacy.
“So,” she says, taking a step back from Prince Harry as he leans over the fence to smell her. “The pool house?”
Right. Just beyond Prince Harry’s pen, the pool house looks like it’s in decent shape, which is good. I have to hope the interior boasts the same because there is no way in heaven and earth that I am sharing a bed with Georgie. I’d rather sleep on the couch despite the fact that it isn’t designed for that. It’s great for reclining, but I know from too much experience lately that a full night on the couch is rough.
The door handle feels loose, but I open the pool house without any difficulties and breathe a sigh of relief when it all looks relatively untouched. It’s a bit musty and dusty, but that’s an easy fix.
“Ta da,” I mutter.
Georgie pokes her head under my arm. “Um.”
“It’s this or the couch, unless you’d prefer to sleep on the floor.” I would never let her do that—the guilt would eat me alive—but I would rather keep her options limited to anything that doesn’t interrupt my already awful sleep.
Groaning a little, she ducks under me and steps deeper into the space. It’s small—no need for a pool house to be much bigger than this—but it has a bathroom and a little kitchenette. More than enough to survive for a few weeks while we get everything settled and done.
“What about a bed?” she asks. Skepticism laces her words with a sharp edge.
