Reluctant Roommates Page 3

  He’d follow her. He had nowhere else to go, unless he wanted to cage himself up in the outdoor dog pen.

  At the moment she didn’t care if he chose to do just that—except that would trap her friends with him.

  And they were her first priority.

  She wasn’t about to let the conversation she and Weston Thomas were about to have happen within earshot of innocents, human or canine, who’d had enough tension in their lives.

  They deserved better than that.

  And she was finding out what it meant to own a home—she couldn’t just walk away.

  * * *

  West watched the woman go, tempted to go after her and get slapped for trying to kiss her. She was maddening. And captivating. Even when he was showered and rested.

  He barely knew her. And he wanted her.

  The feelings she raised in him were part of why he remained where he was. Not only were they wholly inappropriate, but he’d also had his share of intensity—growing up with his father’s constant hype and hope and confidence that was inevitably followed by defeat—and with the unexpected loss of Mary, too. Walter still hadn’t made it big, hadn’t had a success when West had given his fiancée his whole heart—the first time he’d ever done so with anyone. A historical librarian, she’d been right up his alley. Her nurturing had been the first feminine influence he’d ever felt strongly in his life and he’d been a sucker for it. Growing up with only loving memories for a mother, told from his father’s point of view, apparently did that to a guy.

  Standing there, the center of attention for at least three sets of eyes, he alternated between bothered and bemused. He admired Paige’s fire but found her words so over-the-top ludicrous they were almost amusing.

  As if she had any say whatsoever in what he did or did not do with his house and his dogs. He might not have known the canines existed, but that didn’t make them any less his responsibility. Or his right to disperse with.

  Or keep. If he chose.

  After he called the shelter and found out exactly how much ownership he had of the dogs. And how the whole adoption thing worked.

  Checkers, the old Australian shepherd, was awake, cocking his head as he looked at West, and West answered the question he felt coming at him from that old guy by heading over, kneeling down and petting him; Checkers licked at his wrist with a thick tongue.

  “We’ll figure it all out, won’t we, boy?” he asked, in spite of the dog’s deafness. Checkers would see West’s lips move. Maybe. Those solemn eyes looking up at him certainly seemed to be taking West in, regardless of partial blindness.

  Obviously, he’d be keeping Checkers. His dad had made a commitment to the old dog, and for Walter, and maybe himself, too, West wanted to honor that commitment. He had fond memories of Rusty, after all.

  Living in a condo, a dog hadn’t seemed like a fair option. But, as a part of West’s new beginning, he wasn’t opposed to the idea of dog ownership.

  In honor of his father. Some of the joy he’d been picturing on his dad’s face when he eventually broke the news about moving to Atlanta was back. West also imagined Walter with him while he went around to each dog, getting as close as he could to the ones who didn’t trust him enough to be welcoming, talking to them as though they could understand his words. Introducing himself as Walter’s son.

  And when he was through, he knew he couldn’t put off facing the woman who’d walked out on him. If she’d left, he’d have to grovel and call her back. Just long enough to get the dogs’ information from her.

  It didn’t even occur to him that she might refuse to come back. She’d do it for the animals, not for him.

  He didn’t have to call her. Or even go looking. She was standing in the kitchen, leaning back against one of the professional restaurant kitchen–sized counters, drinking from a purple ceramic mug that was as big as her hand.

  “Oh, good, there’s coffee?” he asked. Walter had thrived on the stuff, but West hadn’t known what supplies would be in the house. And since he’d hired movers to pack his condo for him, and was expecting them to arrive by Sunday, he hadn’t brought anything with him but essentials, keepsakes and clothes.

  “I’m drinking tea,” she said. “Chamomile. It’s good for calming tension. I’ll make you a cup if you’d like.”

  He wasn’t a tea drinker unless he was sick. And then he just wanted regular tea. Strong and black. The way he liked his coffee.

  “I’d prefer coffee. My father had the stuff running through his veins, so I’m hoping there’s some here.”

  Unless she’d cleaned him out already. Emptied the kitchen. Donated it all to a shelter. Taking ownership of the leftover groceries like she seemed to think she could do with the dogs and, in fact, the whole house.

  Which was fine. He’d already decided he’d make a grocery run and get the coffee and little bit he needed until his stuff arrived. He generally ordered out for meals. Much more efficient when you were eating for one. And at home, that was just how he wanted it. One.

  She pointed to a cupboard. And to the state-of-the-art coffee maker in an alcove holding a mug tree with one missing.

  The purple one, he guessed.

  He opened the cupboard she’d indicated. Found his favorite brand and blend—and Walter’s, too—as both loose grounds and in individualized coffee maker cups, and chose the grounds and a disposable filter from the pile. He had a strong hunch he was going to need a whole pot’s worth of refills ready and waiting.

  And he’d had a moment to think, too.

  “Look, I didn’t mean to be so harsh back there, as though I’m trying to just cut you off from the dogs. It’s clear you care about them. If you want to stop by to see them...you’re welcome to visit anytime you’d like.”

  The look of compassion that filled that compelling dark blue gaze startled him.

  Was she feeling sorry for him?

  Yeah, he’d just lost his last living relative, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be fine. He would be. He’d get along. Life was what you made it and he had a good one. Currently with a drastic change, yes. But some of it was good change. Great change. New challenges. New sights and sounds and tastes...

  “I think you’re laboring under a huge misapprehension, West,” she said softly. Her use of that name...it stung. In a weirdly gentle way.

  “My name’s Weston.”

  He’d startled her. By the way she stepped back, shuttering her gaze, he figured he’d probably offended her, too. He could almost see his father’s frown at his brusqueness. And he didn’t apologize. He was fighting for something greater than politeness. And as soon as he figured out what it was, he’d find a way to be polite about it.

  “I know your full name, of course,” she said, her tone a little more distant as she held her cup of tea with both hands and sipped. To ease tension.

  As if a cup of tea really had the power to do that.

  “I know your birth weight, and the first words you said, too. It’s all in the chapter where Walter had a son. But he always called you West. Even when he was just referring to having spoken to you, nothing to do with the memoir. I just assumed...” Her shrug nudged his guilt into full gear.

  Was this woman for real?

  And why wouldn’t she be?

  He was the one taking an attitude. Being in his father’s home...feeling robbed of the chance to tell Walter that he was moving to Georgia...of the chance to see his dad more often...

  None of that was her fault. Or had anything to do with her.

  “Aside from what to call you, we still have an issue here,” she continued, no warmth immediately discernible in her voice. “I’d suggest you call your father’s lawyer. His name is Grant Lieberman. I have an appointment with him first thing Monday morning, but I’m sure, given the circumstances, he’ll see you immediately. I’ve got his number...”

  H
e didn’t need to call Grant. He knew what was in the will. His father had sent the assets page a while back, soon after it was drawn up, leaving him the house, with an expense budget that pretty much took up the bulk of Walter’s fortune.

  Still, it was curious... “I have his number. And a Monday-morning appointment. At eight.”

  Eyes widening, she froze with her cup halfway to those distracting lips. “Mine’s at eight, too.”

  Everything stilled. The air. His breath. Her energy. His heart rate. As though frozen in time, they stood there, staring at each other.

  Assessing each other.

  And, at least in Weston’s case, assessing Walter.

  What had his father done now?

  “He left me the house, Weston.”

  Her words didn’t fully compute. Not yet. They wouldn’t until he could figure out what Walter’s thought process had been. Because he knew that the house was his; he just didn’t know why she thought it was hers. She’d have good reason, though. Something to do with his father.

  Even in death, in probate, Walter was being inventive.

  And if history repeated itself, chances were ninety-nine to one that he’d fail.

  And Walter’s odd, compassionate, wholly distracting memoir collaborator, the ghostwriter, was going to get hurt.

  Or Weston was.

  His gut sank.

  Chapter Three

  Paige was the first one to move. She sipped her tea, not caring that what turned out to be an unintentional gulp burned her tongue.

  “Why would we both have appointments at the same time?” She asked the question aloud, figuring they were both wondering.

  “It’s not uncommon with a reading of a will.” Weston sounded calm. Almost unconcerned. His posture was a bit stiff. “All beneficiaries are called to be present.” The last statement came out around a quick sip from his cup.

  Her stomach calmed some. “That makes sense, though you’d think Mr. Lieberman might have said something when he called to set up the appointment. Kind of awkward during the grieving process to be walking into an appointment with someone you’ve just met.” His stance didn’t change, and she hastened to assure him, “Your dad left me this house, including the dogs, of course, and a stipend for the property upkeep, but that’s it. I refused to continue with the memoir until I saw that he didn’t leave the bulk of his fortune, or the invention royalties, to me. I’m sure that’s all yours. And the house... I guess he figured you didn’t have a purpose for it, living in Ohio and all...”

  How did a man stand so still, so expressionless, for so long?

  And how did his silent grief, hidden behind stoicism, still call out to her?

  What gave this man the ability to pull her heartstrings so profoundly? She didn’t even like him. Except that he was Walter’s son.

  They had nothing in common, Weston and her. All the months she’d spent hearing about him from Walter, all the mementoes she’d seen, the letters she’d read...report cards, even. He’d excelled at institutionalized learning. She’d been bored by it. She’d done it. Had a creative arts bachelor’s degree from a prestigious school, but that had simply been a means to an end.

  Weston appeared to be a black-and-white kind of guy.

  She floated through life in shades of purple and pink. With a bit of blue mixed in. Like with Walter’s death. Definitely blue.

  She jumped when West finally moved. Weston. Weston moved. He left, actually. Just walked out of the room with his cup of coffee sitting on the counter. Couldn’t blame him, she supposed. She’d done the same to him just a few minutes before, abruptly leaving the kennel without a word.

  He’d apparently thought the house was his. Had to be a mental, if not emotional, blow to find out that it wasn’t. He’d need time to process.

  She could give him that. She had nowhere to be, except at the keyboard. Walter’s memoir wasn’t going to write itself and deadlines didn’t wait. She’d put in written notice at her apartment. Had to be out by the weekend, but she could take the back bedroom, the only bedroom on the ground floor—probably originally intended for live-in staff—for the time being. And hang out with the dogs. The kennel had always been her favorite place in the house.

  And her stuff...she traveled light, rented furnished apartments. She could unload the majority of her things in one of the garages for now. They were boxed up tight and would be all right. The clothes and toiletries—those she’d already brought in while he’d been sleeping. Had left them in the back hall, not wanting to take them upstairs and risk waking him. The hanging things were all in the back bedroom closet already.

  So, yeah, things were going to be fine. It would all work out, she reassured herself. She always made sure it did.

  “Here’s a copy of what you’ll be seeing on Monday.” West’s words hit her at the same time his presence did. Like a ton of bricks. A wall she couldn’t penetrate.

  So why wasn’t she pushing back as hard as she could? Why was she reaching for the paper he held? Giving him the benefit of the doubt?

  She glanced at him before she looked at the sheet he held.

  She was giving him space because he was Walter’s son. And her weird sense of comfort, being close to him; that was also because of Walter.

  Suddenly finding him more attractive than any man she could remember...standing there closer to him than she’d been to date, close enough to smell his pine-scented soap, or whatever, feeling his body warmth... Well, that must just be her way of fighting herself out of the cavern of grief.

  You found something good to feel, even if you had to make it up.

  “Read,” he said, his tone kinder sounding all of a sudden. Or maybe she was making that up, too.

  Glancing down, she recognized the formatting, the font, the header—all things she, as a writer, would note—and then, as she read the first paragraph, frowned.

  She knew the words. Had a copy of them in her bag out in the kennel with her computer. Except that where her name should be, it read “Weston Lake Thomas.” “Lake” for his mother’s maiden name, she knew.

  “But...” Frowning, she glanced up at him. Read again, noted the date.

  Her copy of the asset page of Walter’s will had the exact same date. She was sure of it. There was a time stamp on his, 2:04 p.m. Did hers have one?

  Until that moment she hadn’t realized how much she’d been counting on understanding any final life lessons Walter wanted her to learn from property ownership. He’d seemed so certain that it would change her life in some marvelous way.

  And, dammit, she’d believed him.

  Handing West the piece of paper, she started to tremble. Had to get to her computer bag and the file of most important papers she’d stashed there after leaving her apartment key at the office.

  Without another word, or even a backward glance, she set down her tea and left the room.

  * * *

  She’d done it again. Just walked out on him. Like he was supposed to know what to do with that. Other than dwell on how much she infuriated him. The situation was difficult enough without her flighty attitude.

  Yeah, he’d walked out without a word, too. But only to get the proof he’d needed. He’d come right back.

  She didn’t return immediately. He drank his coffee. Poured a second cup, mostly to be doing something besides waiting around for her in the event she reappeared, and started in on that, too.

  Until it dawned on him that she’d read that the house—and the dogs—weren’t hers, and then made a beeline...straight to the pets. Was she removing them from the residence? Had she already done so?

  He had no idea what kind of vehicle she drove. A beater, he’d guess, something older. But it could be big enough to transport six dogs.

  Setting his half-empty cup down next to hers, he strode out to the kennel...

  And stopped abruptly in
the doorway. On the floor, with the little pug on her lap, the big beagle’s head on her thigh, the skinny little black terrier sitting next to her, with Checkers close by and the others standing a few feet away, from her and each other, Paige sat with tears on her face.

  He must have made some sound that alerted her to his presence as she quickly wiped her cheeks. And her hands on the dogs moved more fully over them, as though she was gathering them all into her as quickly as she could. Ready to wrap her arms around them and protect them from the big, bad bully.

  That would be him. The big, bad bully.

  He wasn’t one. He knew that.

  She should, too, after having spent the past year or more hearing about him.

  Surely his father wouldn’t have built him up to be someone anyone would fear. He was the most quiet, private man he knew. He lived by the book, delivered on his word, surprised no one, except maybe with a good financial outcome they hadn’t expected. He smiled at people. Helped where he could.

  And otherwise kept to himself.

  He didn’t hurt anyone.

  Other than Walter, he feared. He hoped not. But...had he? Inadvertently?

  He’d thought his father understood him. Was proud of him. They were vastly different people. But had always respected each other.

  Loved each other.

  So why hadn’t he known his father was running a kennel?

  Had Walter been that lonely for family? Dying lonely because his only son had been too wrapped up in his own life to see that his old man needed him?

  His father had always been welcome in Ohio. Weston had told him, multiple times, that if Walter wanted to move home, they could get a place together...

  And Walter had always seemed so happy in Georgia, so busy, constantly meeting new people, bringing them into his life.

  “You have something to say or are you just going to stand there watching us?” Paige’s truculent words almost made Weston smile.

  Which was as absurd as everything else that had already transpired that day.