Page 6 of Married to the Scottish Player
But my knee aches, and I’m not in the mood to share.
So I clear my throat.Loudly.Impatiently.
Her eyes blink open wide, hazy and suspicious, and then immediately lock onto me—damp, shirtless, and very much scowling down at her.
“Who thehellare you?” she croaks, voice raspy with sleep and attitude. “Did you wander over from the resort?”
I blink back. “No.”
She squints harder, like that’s the least convincing answer I could’ve given. “Are you drunk?”
“What?” Why would she think I was drunk—is she out of her mind? “Areyoudrunk?” I return, peppering her with questions. “Didyouwander over from the resort?”
“Please stop repeating everything I say.”
I am not repeating everything she says, but she’s asking some valid questions.
“This is my place,” I inform her, pointing at my bare chest. “I rented the cottage for the week.”
“No,” she snaps, sitting up straighter, voice rising. “Irented this cottage. From LakeStay. With a confirmation email and everything.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “StayCation. Different site. Same cottage.”
Fuck.
“Wait. Why aren’t you wearing clothes?” she demands, still lying in the hammock, not making the slightest effort to get up. “You could’ve at least put on a shirt before you came charging over here to accost me.”
Accost her? The fuck!
I stare down at my torso; wearing only swim trunks and a towel wrapped around my waist, I’ve spent the past two hours at the spa next door.
“You’re in myhammock. Eating my air. Breathingmypeace.”
Who the hell does this chick think she is?
She finally moves. Pulls herself upright with a dramatic-sized groan and sits on the edge of the canvas, legs swinging, face pinched in concentration like she’s about to start an argument. “This can probably be resolved by calling the property owner, mmm? There’s no need for theatrics.”
Theatrics? Me?
Is she fucking serious?If I wanted to be theatrical, I’d toss her out on her ass, not stand here gaping at her like the lazy chickenshit I am. Turns out, I’m exhausted from my massage and could use a nap myself.
I huff, stalking past her and into the house, shirtless, damp from the spa next door, and standing in my living room—correction,ourliving room, apparently—staring at a duffel bag that does not belong to me. Or my rental.
Sneakers with red stars are by the door.
A pink water bottle sits on the kitchen counter.
Laptop bag.
The interloper marches in behind me like she wasn’t the one caught napping in my hammock five minutes ago. Humming. Humming, for fuck’s sake, as if she is Snow White in a goddamn Disney movie and woodland creatures are going to show up and fold her hoodie.
She tosses it onto a stool. “I’ll show you the confirmation,” she mumbles, finger swiping on her cell. She holds it up, presenting me with Exhibit A: “Here’s the info. All week.See?”
I pull out my own phone, thumb through my emails, and boom—same shit, different app.
Ofcoursethis is happening to me.
She nibbles her lower lip. “Well, shit. We’re both actually booked here?”
