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“That’s convenient. I’m sure it keeps you from having to scour the bars or dating apps for vacation hookups,” I say, and he chuckles in response.

When he turns into my driveway, I’m honestly a little disappointed it didn’t take us longer to get to my place. Not that he’s a guy who says a whole lot, but there is something about him, something that is bigger than how good looking he is, that I like.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him when he parks behind my car in the driveway.

“I’ll walk you up.”

“So you can confirm that I’ve got my door locked?” I joke, but the look he gives me makes it clear he doesn’t think I’m funny. “Don’t worry, I’ve been making sure to lock it,” I assure him and unhook my belt. I open my door, get out, and walk around the hood to meet him there. “What time do you want to meet in the morning?”

“I’m up early and don’t have plans, so you let me know.” He follows me up to my porch as I dig out my keys.

“I’m meeting a client tomorrow at eight, so does nine thirty work for you?”

“You’re meeting a client on a Sunday?”

“Yeah, the guy lives out of town, and we were going to meet earlier today so I could show him two places I found, but his flight was delayed, so we rescheduled for tomorrow.”

“You’re meeting him alone?”

“No, I’m bringing my team of bodyguards that moonlight as Chippendale dancers at the all-male strip club in Missoula,” I say, then start to laugh when he glowers at me. “Yes, I’m meeting him alone. He’s also like fifty years old. And I know you probably won’t believe me, but I’m not completely reckless, and I’ve been doing this job for a long time. If I ever feel uncomfortable about a buyer or even a seller, I’ll bring someone along. Plus, I’ve taken multiple years of self-defense classes and have no doubt that I could put a grown man on his ass. I bet I could take you without even breaking a sweat.”

“That’s doubtful,” he mutters, and part of me wants to pull one of the moves my instructor taught me just so I can get him to eat his words. But as quickly as the thought comes into my head, so does the image of me straddling him once I have him on the ground, and there is nothing appropriate about that image or the way my body reacts to it.

“So.” I clear my throat. “I’ll see you at nine thirty?” I put my key in the door. “Also.” I smile back at him after unlocking the door and pushing it open. “Thanks again for the ride and for not arresting me.” His eyes drop to my mouth for the briefest of seconds, making my belly dip, before he meets my gaze once more.

“See you in the morning, Genevieve.”

Yep, I really like it when he says my name. “Night, Wyatt.” I walk into my house and close the door. Then I get up on my tiptoes so I can look out the peephole, and I watch him stand there for a few seconds just staring at my door before it looks like he mutters something under his breath and turns to step off the porch. Because I’m unable to take my eyes off him, I watch until he gets into his truck, and I keep watching until his truck is out of sight. Turning away from the door, I bite my bottom lip. Then I go message my friends, who are all blowing up my phone, and assure them that I don’t need to be bailed out of jail.

Chapter 12:

Lap Dance

Genevieve

As I’m walking through the living room, I hear a creak above me and look up. It’s not the first time I’ve heard a noise like that, and if Mrs. Carberry heard anything similar on a regular basis over the years she lived here, I can understand why she was convinced that there was a ghost in the house. Well, that, and there have been a couple of times where strange things have happened. Like the towel I tossed toward the hook in my bathroom one morning on my way out of the house and thought I heard hit the floor, but when I got home, I found it hanging up. Or when I could have sworn I locked the door before I went to bed but found it unlocked when I got up in the morning. Sure, I could have just imagined both things, but there is also a chance that there is a ghost living in the house.

When I don’t hear another noise, I shake my head and take a step toward the kitchen so I can fill my water bottle and take it with me when Wyatt gets here, but I stop when something bangs against my front door so hard that the windows next to it rattle.

When it happens again, I walk toward it slowly, get up on my tiptoes, and look out the peephole. There is no one there, but the door rattles again, freaking me right the heck out. Sure that I’m really being haunted, I start to pull away, but as I do, I catch sight of Wyatt walking toward my front porch. I can’t really make out what he’s saying, but it doesn’t take me long to figure out that he’s talking to Storm when I see the giant black dog jump off the end of my porch and begin to run circles around his owner. I probably shouldn’t laugh, but it’s actually pretty funny seeing Wyatt attempt to catch the big dog that has zero interest in listening to him. I open my door, lean against the jamb, and watch Wyatt start to chase Storm around my front yard, using language that is highly inappropriate.

“Maybe if you were nicer, he’d be more inclined to come to you,” I say, and both man and dog stop to look at me. “Oh no.” I back up when Storm runs toward me with his body low to the ground, head down and ears back like he’s on a mission. Before I can, I don’t know, slam the door or turn around and run, the dog is on me. His big front paws are up against my chest, and his face is in mine.

“Storm, heel,” Wyatt orders, but the dog doesn’t listen—no, he starts to lick my face while I try to stay on my feet against his heavy weight. “Storm, down,” Wyatt says, grabbing him by his collar while I wipe the slobber from my face.

Looking at the dog, who is still trying to get to me, I reach out my hand and pat the top of his head, hoping he will calm down if I give him the attention that he is so obviously after.

“Good dog.” I pat his head again when he sits, and I hear Wyatt make a noise that sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “What?”

“Nothing.” His eyes wander over my face for a second. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I was just going to fill my water bottle. Do you want anything?”

“I’m good.” He closes the door and looks around the room. It hasn’t changed since the night I moved in. I haven’t had the money or the time to add any kind of personal touch to the space, so it still looks like an eighty-plus-year-old woman lives here. “How was your showing this morning?” he asks when I come back from the kitchen.

“Good. He didn’t like either of the places I showed him. He really wants a house that has a bonus room he can fix up for his grandkids so they will want to hang out at his place. We’re going to keep looking.” I grab my coat and put it on while Storm watches me with his tail sweeping the floor. “Did you do anything fun this morning?”

“Fun, no, but I had coffee with the mayor.”