Reluctant Roommates
Auteur·e
Tara Taylor Quinn
Lectures
15,5K
Chapitres
20
Chapter One
Exhausted from the long drive, Weston Thomas was aggravated, to say the least, when he heard a key unlocking the front door of his deceased father’s home. Walter Thomas, inventor, had attracted dreamers and free spirits his entire life. And in later years, gold-diggers and users, too. No telling who might have been given a key to his Georgia mansion.
Hands on the hips of his gray dress pants, Weston stood in the grand foyer, eyes steely, ready to defend his territory on that early Saturday morning. Top dead bolt undone. Handleset would be next. He watched for the inside lever to turn. The trespasser would make it no farther than one step in the door before being directed back out again, with the heavy wooden door at his or her back.
Being an accountant, and not a law enforcement officer, didn’t mean a man couldn’t be fierce and protect when the situation demanded. He had the height. Worked out. What smart person didn’t want to stay healthy and able?
Metal against metal as the key slid into the lower lock.
He could just open the door. Didn’t want the intruder to fall in on him. Or get that close. He’d been driving all night. Needed a shower, not a fistfight.
And didn’t want blood on his father’s shiny marble floor. He’d only just laid the man to rest in their Ohio hometown the morning before. Had just lost the last member of his small biological family. Spilling blood would be too much.
Click, turn and...
A woman appeared, stopping with one sandaled foot in the door, one lagging behind. She was young, slender, with soft features and...was that a streak of purple in that hip-length mass of golden-brown curls swirling around her?
“West?”
Dumbfounded—by her presence at all, and by the long-retired use of his shortened name—he stared at her.
“Do I know you?” he managed, frowning instead of showing the back of the door to what he imagined would be a very attention-getting backside.
“I’m Paige Martinson. Your father’s memoir collaborator. I was with him when he called you to tell you about me.”
He hadn’t known that. Was put off by the knowledge with no good reason. “I looked you up online. Your only social media account is set to private. And there’s not much else there.” She’d brought her other foot in behind her, but the door still hung open, the early-morning sun bringing a brightness into the room he wasn’t ready to face.
He’d just arrived. Needed to...
He didn’t know what. Time to figure out what he needed.
“I thought you were older,” he said when she didn’t explain her lack of internet presence, not even a professional website.
Digging himself a deeper hole. Because he was tired.
And...dammit...grieving. There. No, he wasn’t fine, as he’d assured a couple hundred people, over and over, the day before. He’d just lost his father. How could he be fine?
You didn’t have to be close to a parent to love them.
“N-not that your age matters a whit,” he stumbled on. “Just explains, along with no pictures of you on the internet, why I didn’t recognize you.”
Now please go. The woman was helping to bring to life Walter’s story. She deserved Weston’s respect and a good measure of politeness, too.
But he was running low on pretty much anything he’d ordinarily have to give.
Except, apparently, in the libido department. He was wide awake there. His groin, and the parts of his brain that activated it, seemed to be the only part of his body that felt energy.
Because he was out of sorts, out of state, standing in a mansion that had never been home to him, but which was his deceased father’s pride and joy. The long black skirt the woman—Paige—was wearing...was that Lycra? He didn’t remember having ever seen a skirt made of legging material. And the top, a flowing black-and-white tie-dyed tank top with jagged edges instead of a regular hem, and lace, not at all his style.
He was attracted to women in business apparel. Maybe with some hint of cleavage showing. With short or neatly pulled back hair. Top knots. And shoes that covered a woman’s toes.
What sort of grown woman colored her toenails with purple and pink stripes?
“Social media doesn’t appeal to me. I’m only on there because of my siblings.”
This free-spirited-looking woman had siblings? There were more out there like her? For some reason, the idea intrigued his tired mind. He tried to remember what his father had told him about Paige. Other than how much Walter paid her, that he’d insisted on splitting royalties with her when the book went to print the following year, that though she was a ghostwriter by trade, his father had required that she take a byline and share copyright on the book that had already sold to a major New York publisher—all business details—Weston drew a blank.
When she took another step inside, he came to his senses. Took a step forward as well. “It’s nice of you to stop by, Ms. Martinson,” he told her. “But I’ve just driven through the night and need to get some rest. I realize we probably have things to discuss regarding the memoir, and I’m happy to schedule an appointment with you later in the weekend, or early next week...”
After he’d had time to settle in.
And figure out how he was going to fit in with his father’s legacy. With the mansion.
Her mouth dropped open. And then shut. Not before he noticed those full lips, though. They were as interesting as the rest of her until he reminded himself they were just lips. Lips opened and closed. It was just what they did.
She shook her head. “I fully understand your exhaustion,” she told him. “I actually didn’t expect you to head down so soon. I’ll be as quiet as I can be...”
Taking a step around him, she headed through the foyer, toward the back of the welcoming room. “Excuse me.” His tone was no longer welcoming. Or polite.
Spinning, like a figurine of a dancer pirouetting on top of a music box—she took a couple steps toward him before he’d had a chance to make the first move. “Yes?”
“Where do you think you’re going?” She might have been welcome to make herself at home when Walter was alive, but the place was Weston’s now. And he needed some time alone.
“To feed the dogs.”
The dogs? “Come again?”
“Seven is feeding time. Morning and evening. These guys have already suffered enough in their young lives. Walter insisted on routines they could count on to help rebuild their trust...”
“Dogs?” He passed by her, moving toward the back of the house, the entry to the kitchen, wondering how he hadn’t known his father had gotten a pet. Two of them apparently, based on the plural dogs.
And apparently he owed the ghostwriter a thank-you for looking in on them. Might have been nice, though, if he’d been given a heads-up that there were live beings awaiting his attention.
“I can feed dogs,” he told her, looking for them as he rounded the corner and entered a kitchen too enormous for even a large family to need—let alone one man who lived alone.
Walter had lived alone, hadn’t he?
With a sudden sickening feeling in his gut, he looked back over his shoulder to see the ethereal character following after him. “How long have you had a key to the place?”
“Since I started helping Walter with the dogs. I love them as much as he did, and once he saw that, he didn’t want to deny me the pleasure of associating with them.”
Right. He nodded, still looking for the animals. Determined to be the one to lead the way through his home.
She’d been heading back toward the kitchen. Which led to the laundry facilities—a room as big as the entire bottom floor of his condo—and still no sign of canine inhabitants.
Walter had hoped to have the house filled with grandkids...
“So you just come to feed them?” he asked then, glad to know they’d been cared for while he, though his dad’s only living relative and heir, had been unaware of their existence. “You don’t...live here or anything...” She’d used that key with familiarity...
Her hesitation sent more lead to the mound settling in his gut. “Um, no,” she said slowly, drawing out the word.
Latching on to the word he’d most needed to hear—no—Weston dropped the topic, leaving the hesitation in her tone to wither and die.
He was a little concerned that they were standing in the middle of the laundry room with no dogs in sight—and no place else to go except back the way they’d come. He’d only visited the home a couple of times—content to have Walter come home to Ohio for their get-togethers—and had never actually been in the laundry room, other than to peek in the door from the kitchen.
Getting to know the house better had been on his list of to-dos. So he’d know better what to get rid of in Ohio and what to bring with him. He was moving in to stay—had known that as soon as he’d seen the page from his father’s will that left him the place. Made sense, since he was already uprooting himself and moving to Georgia. The plans had been in the works for more than a month—ever since he’d been offered and had accepted a national client that would allow him to live anywhere. Had been planning to tell his father the next time they saw each other. Had wanted to see Walter’s face when he heard the news...
Seemed far too little solace to know that at least he’d have his father’s things around him, but, oddly, it was helping. Hadn’t been that way at all with Mary. Her things had been constant stabbing reminders of the lover he’d lost. And his mother? He couldn’t remember much about his mother’s things, but hadn’t noticed a lot of them around growing up...
“The dogs are through that little archway,” Paige said, motioning toward a little cubby with shelves bearing extra household supplies. “There’s a door to the outside on the other side of the shelves.”
“The dogs are outside?”
So why had she come inside to take care of them?
“Not really,” she said, taking a step closer, as though she was going to pass him and show him the way.
Catapulting into action, Weston rounded the corner, saw the door—frowned as he noticed a lack of any dead bolt or other external security—and pulled. The immediate scrambling of claws and instant whines filled his ears as he stood, taking in the fully enclosed room he knew for certain hadn’t been there when he’d last visited the house two years before.
Walter had talked about getting a dog on and off since Rusty had died when Weston had left for college. But...
He counted...
“Seven?” Jumping off from various blankets on couches, one coming to greet him with a wagging tail. Others of varying sizes and colors held themselves back, watching him with big, brown, hesitant gazes.
“He didn’t tell you?”
That was pretty obvious, now, wasn’t it?
Reaching down to pet the German shepherd–looking mix that was standing right in front of him, he stared at the others, taking in their comfortable surroundings. Homing in on a large doggy door built into the back wall.
“It leads to a quarter-of-an-acre outdoor pen,” Paige said, obviously seeing him glance in that direction. Brushing past him, she went to the five dogs who weren’t greeting him.
Squatting down, Paige spoke so quietly Weston couldn’t make out her words. She faced each dog individually, taking time to give soft touches and words to the first three. Two of them backed away as she reached out to them, and she lowered herself down on one elbow, talking to first one and then the other, as they both watched her intently.
Overwhelmed, noticing excrement on the floor, he watched as one of the two hold-backers took a step toward Paige and caught himself as he was silently coaxing the dog to let her touch him.
Like he’d know anything at all about the woman’s touch. Or had any way to find out?
Seven dogs, ranging in size from ten to seventy pounds, he estimated.
He needed to know names. To figure out what to do with them. How they’d fit into new life plans he’d only just begun to form.
Reaching to the German shepherd mix again, easily the largest of them all, he rubbed the animal’s head, looked around for feeding bins. Three large perpetual waterers sat along three of the walls of the room. Dog pads needed to be changed. Floor disinfected. Whoever wasn’t house-trained needed to be.
“That’s Stover,” Paige said, leaning back to look at Weston as she continued to reach a hand out to the wary two. “He’s leaving today.”
Weston’s hand immediately stilled. Pulling it away from the dog, he slid it into his pocket. “Leaving?”
“His family is coming to get him at nine,” she said. “I finalized everything yesterday.”
What the hell! She was giving away his father’s dogs? Sure, Weston had been thinking along those lines, probably, but the choice was his and...
“They’re rescues, West.” How did a voice hold such compassion with a complete stranger? No one was that familiar. Or that open, either, not when just meeting someone, except maybe his father.
He glanced around the room again, at the various mixed breeds, some too skinny, one with a shaved leg, while Paige continued. “Walter saw a show on TV a couple of years ago. It was a local show about a privately funded nonprofit called Operation Rescue, that is kind of like social services for dogs. They specialize in helping rescues and families find their right matches. He called them and offered to house dogs that couldn’t be immediately adopted out for one reason or another. He had this room built soon after. He only takes in seven at a time, but he’s the first person Amanda, our contact, calls when any of the local shelters get animals that might be put down. Your dad had a way with them right away. He’d lay on the floor for a couple hours a day if that’s what it took to get a dog to trust humans again...”
He’d had no idea. His father had always been one to immerse himself—and by association, West—fully into whatever project he’d taken on to make life better in some way...but living beings?
Had Walter been that lonely?
He should have known. Had a headache. Needed a shower. And some rest.
“So, tell me what I have to do,” he said instead. “Are there different diets? Where is the food? And bowls, for that matter. I’ll need vet numbers, shelter contacts...has anyone else already been placed?” He ran through the first things that came to mind. And then, before she could supply any answers, asked, “Do they all have names?”
Where was the mop? Where were the puppy pads kept? And who was the untrained one?
One of the friendlier three, a black, brown and white terrier-looking dog, male by the looks of things, sat down and started to scratch as he spoke.
“Have they been checked for fleas?” he added. “And are any on medications?” Made sense, if they’d been mistreated, they might be.
As he continued his barrage, still standing there, shell-shocked, in the doorway, both hands in his pockets, Paige stood up and faced him.
“How about if I take care of everything this morning, while you get yourself settled, showered and rested,” she said, her smile just...kind. How long had it been since he’d slowed down enough, tuned in enough, to experience the kindness of others? “I’ve been helping Walter for the past year and handling them alone this past week. Then later today, when you’re feeling better, we can sit down and talk it all through.”
Not sure he liked the knowing look in her gaze, or the fact that she was taking control of a situation in his house, he nonetheless jumped right on the respite she’d offered. A smart man knew when he needed to get to his corner and regroup.
But... “There’s a puddle over there by the green couch.”
“Buddy, yeah,” she said. “Every morning in the same place. He’s marking his spot. Taking ownership. It’s a good thing.”
Not if the pup hoped to find a home, Weston thought, looking over the bunch, wondering which one was Buddy. And realizing that she was right. One more feeding wasn’t going to change the world, either way.
Nor was kicking her out the front door immediately as critically important. No way he was putting those poor pups further at risk simply because he needed to be alone.
He was tired. Not heartless. Regardless of what his father might or might not have grown to think about him.
“How do I reach you when I’m ready to talk?” Relaxing enough to believe he was actually going to sleep at some point very soon, he gave in long enough to get his wits about him.
“I’ll be out here,” she said. “I’ve got my laptop and have been working here since Walter’s death. The dogs and I...we’re grieving together.” Her voice broke.
And when Weston’s heart felt an answering pang, he turned and got the hell out of there.
Paige watched Weston Thomas’s very nice backside leave the room, glad to see the broad, military-straight shoulders disappear. Tension slid out of her in a rush, and Buddy, the boy who couldn’t quite let himself accept the love he so desperately needed, sat down.
She stared at Buddy. He never relaxed enough to sit unless he was across the room from any human who happened to be sharing it with him. He’d started to come within a couple feet of her in the past week. Had done so with Walter almost from the start. But always on all four feet—able to get himself immediately away in the event a hand that reached toward him turned violent. Never sitting.
And there he was.
Buddy didn’t trust people any more than Paige trusted in forever.
He was probably right not to trust Weston Thomas, either. Paige had been dreading the arrival of Walter’s uptight son since her employer and friend had suffered the heart attack that had prematurely ended his life. Weston would want to clear out some family mementos, for sure, before Paige took formal possession of the house that was now hers.
Like she had any use for owned property, period, let alone a mansion and grounds outside of Atlanta, Georgia. She’d tried many times, unsuccessfully, to convince Walter of the fact. He’d always come back with the same question. “How can you know something you’ve never known?”
How could she know she had no use for property when she’d never owned any? The only way to know what she’d do with it, and what she could gain from it, was to have it and find out.
Their conversations about the matter had always gone the same way. He’d been very definite at the end, too.
He had the right to do whatever the hell he liked with his own property.
The man had definitely liked getting his own way.
And had been the most tenacious person she’d ever met.
She’d been hoping his son would not have inherited those qualities from the father with whom he’d spent little time in the past few years.
Since West’s fiancée’s death, according to Walter. Prior to that, when West had humored Walter and his various schemes and ideas, he’d still taken time to vacation with him. To go deep-sea fishing. And hiking in various places throughout the world. Both were activities Walter had introduced West to as a child.
And ones, according to Walter, West had given up after Mary died.
Along with the ability to smile, apparently, she thought, with one last glance to the space the man had recently occupied.
He was everything she’d dreaded—and worse. As tenacious and certain he’d get his way as his father had been. Minus Walter’s whimsy, his undying optimism and love of life.
“How does a guy who’s two years younger than me make me feel like a kid?” She directed the question at Buddy, who didn’t move, but the fifteen-pound, skinny blond cocker mix was still sitting within a couple feet of her.
Darcy, an approximately three-year-old beagle mix, came forward and nudged her hand. He’d completely recovered from the surgery on his right front leg, and the hair was even starting to grow back. The leg break had been just one of the atrocities Darcy had lived through. And still, he was willing to give and receive love.
She was right there with him on that one. No matter what life had dealt you, you could still be kind.
Darcy’s second nudge was a little less gentle.
She got it. They needed to eat. Not watch her worry about things. All they wanted was to have enough to eat and drink. And to love and be loved. All in one room was fine with them.
They were happy with very little, as long as there was no more cruelty.
And maybe that was why she’d spent the past week with only the dogs. They knew what did and did not matter. And gave unconditional love without limits. People had a lot to learn from the canine population. Walter had known that.
She did, too.
She wasn’t so sure she could say the same for Weston Thomas.
Which meant that the sooner they got him out of their orbit, the better.
