were all sorts of things he could reply, such as, he wanted his grandmother’s stuff brought back. Even as tired as he was, still he knew that what he really wanted was his grandmother back and that wasn’t going to happen. So he went on the offensive. “You need to move all this crap out of here.”
Her eyes shifted more to gray when she got huffy. She crossed her arms in front of her. “I have a listing agreement.”
“Not with me.”
“My agreement is with Mrs. Neeson’s attorney.”
“That’s a funny thing, because the house was left to me.” He had to be honest though. “I do remember some weird-ass conversation with her lawyer. I was in Libya with a camp of rebels. It was a bad connection. Maybe he thought I said yes to listing the house when I didn’t.” He scrubbed his hands across his eyes. He’d kill for a cup of coffee. “I’ll probably sell, but I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do yet.”
“This puts me in a very difficult position.” She seemed not to know what to do. He got the impression that she was as staged as the house she was attempting to sell. All at once it occurred to him that she was pretty new at this biz. Probably hadn’t come across any difficult situations yet.
Well, she was in one now.
A frown marred her pretty face. “I don’t want to be rude but I have no proof you are Mrs. Neeson’s grandson.
He figured she had a point, and he already sensed she was stubborn enough that she wouldn’t leave until she was satisfied he was who he said he was. So he shifted until he could reach his wallet, took it out, seeing it through her eyes as a grubby, falling-apart-at-the-seams excuse for a wallet. He opened the Velcro flap that was only half stuck down and offered her his driver’s license.
She took a look. Stared at him and back at the picture as if she was a bouncer wondering if his ID was fake. “You don’t have the same last name.”
“That’s right. It’s a maternal/paternal thing.”
“I think maybe you should leave and we’ll sort this out tomorrow.”
He was no more going to leave this house than he was going to put up with being bossed around by an uppity blond in too-high heels. “That’s not going to happen.” Enough already. He wanted to get back to his nap. In peace. “Let’s call Edward Barnes. He knows me.”
“He’s on a wine-tasting trip in California. And if you actually know him, you’ll know he—”
“Doesn’t carry a cell phone,” he finished for her, feeling increasingly irritated. He prided himself on keeping cool in a crisis but this was getting ridiculous. “How did I get in?”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“I opened the door, which was locked. How did I get in if I’m not her grandson?”
“The key hidden under the planter. Probably the second place anyone would look, after checking under the mat.”
“I am not leaving here. I am the legal owner of this home.”
“All I’m asking you to do is prove it.”
He jumped up as the obvious solution struck him. “Photo albums with pictures of me and my grandmother.”
She looked guilty. “Remember what I told you about decluttering?”
“Where are the photo albums?”
“In storage.”
This was turning into a bad farce. You might as well try and milk a rhinoceros as reason with this woman. Some of the old neighbors might have recognized him but most had moved on. Or died.
It was difficult to think when he was in a bedroom, in a bed, and a very attractive woman was alone with him. In heels. Now he pictured her in nothing but those black heels stretched out on the white expanse of the bed.
He had to get out of here. And soon, before he was as hard as one of the bedposts. He shifted and sat up. “Follow me.”
She was instantly suspicious. “Follow you where?”
“My first choice would be to the front door—” he was lying, it was his second choice “—but if that’s not going to happen, then I want to show you something in my old bedroom down the hall.” He scowled as he maneuvered his legs off the bed, trying not to wince, and headed for the door. “I mean, what used to be my old bedroom. Before you turned it into a nursery.” Which was why he’d had to crash in his grandmother’s bed instead of his own.
His progress was halting at best. She followed slowly, then said, “Oh, my gosh. We moved a black cane into storage. I assumed it was Mrs. Neeson’s. Was it yours?”
“No. It was my grandmother’s.” He didn’t feel like explaining. Especially since she supposedly didn’t even believe he was Mrs. Neeson’s grandson.
“Oh, good.”
She wisely refrained from further comment and simply followed his slow progress to the room that had been his for what seemed like his entire life. His grandmother had let him redecorate it after his parents got divorced and maybe that had helped him feel like there’d always be somewhere in his life that was permanent.
The daylight filtered through the dormer window and he remembered all the mornings he’d lain in bed, gazing at the sky, dreaming of travel, of adventure, of a future where he set his own rules.
Under the dormer was a window seat. He noted that the stager had placed a fancy cushion on top of the spot where he’d folded himself into the space between the walls and read comic books hour after hour.
He removed the designer cushion, tossed it onto the faux-leather chair neither he nor his grandmother would ever have chosen. He pulled up on the wooden top of the box and it gave slightly.
“That doesn’t open,” she said in a smug tone. “We tried it.”
“Yeah it does.” He’d worked ages on the project figuring out an intricate puzzle opening to keep his stash of treasures secret. The cool thing about his grandmother was that she’d never asked him how to get into the thing. Never asked him what he kept in there. She was the kind of woman who respected a man’s privacy and trusted him with his secrets. He wished there were more women like that in the world.
When Hailey moved closer to check out what he was doing he caught her scent. Elusive, feminine, sexy as a woman in nothing but stilettos. And maybe a wisp or two of lingerie.
He slid his index finger into the familiar groove. His fingers were thicker now he’d grown up but he could still maneuver the latch that raised the top another inch, allowing him access to the second mechanism. It took him another minute and then he lifted the lid all the way, staring down into the hollow box for the first time in years.
There wasn’t much there. A few old comics he’d never part with. He pushed his first baseball glove out of the way, a dog-eared National Geographic, and there, underneath a wooden knife he’d carved himself in his Samurai phase, was the leather folder. He took it out, brushed a dead moth off, and handed it to her. He rose from his crouched position and looked
