The Runaway Bride

Chapter 6

Wade

"Don't start?"

I repeated the words slowly, staring at my grandmother as though she'd just announced that she'd sold my kidney to pay for a new handbag.

She had the nerve to look surprised by my tone.

Behind her, Maren Whitmore stood with her arms folded across her chest, wearing an expression that suggested she'd been waiting all evening for someone to come and witness the injustice she'd suffered. The woman had been in my house for less than a day, and somehow she'd already managed to make herself comfortable enough to glare at me like I was the intruder.

I was beginning to understand why my head had been hurting since we'd arrived.

"Grandma," I said, keeping my voice as even as I could manage, "you rented out my house."

"Yes, Wade. I did."

"Without telling me."

"You weren't answering your phone."

"I was out of town!"

"Precisely. Out of town. Not living here."

I stared at her.

Was she serious?

My grandmother, Eleanor Mercer, had always been a determined woman. She could turn a five-minute conversation into a three-hour argument and emerge from it convinced she'd done everyone a favor. I'd learned long ago that arguing with her required patience, a strong stomach, and occasionally a stiff drink.

Tonight, I had none of those things.

"I don't care whether you think I'm living here or not," I said. "You should have called me before handing the keys to a stranger."

Maren made a small, offended noise.

I turned toward her.

"Don't."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Don't what?"

"Whatever you're about to say."

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"Wonderful. Let's keep it that way."

She stared at me as though she was considering whether the wooden coat stand might have been a better choice of weapon after all.

My grandmother sighed.

"Must you behave like this in front of the child?"

I glanced at Poppy.

She was sitting on the sofa with her backpack in her lap, watching us with bright, curious eyes. The poor girl had already witnessed enough of my temper for one evening.

I took a breath and lowered my voice.

"You're right. I'm sorry, bug."

Poppy smiled. "It's okay, Daddy."

Then, in a whisper that wasn't nearly quiet enough, she added, "But you are being a little bit grumpy."

Maren covered her mouth.

I saw the smile in her eyes.

Of course she was enjoying this.

I pointed a finger at her without looking away from my daughter. "I can see you."

"I'm not doing anything," she said innocently.

"That makes one of us."

"Wade!" my grandmother snapped.

I dropped my hand.

This was ridiculous.

I had spent the better part of the day dealing with work, driving for hours, and trying to keep a five-year-old entertained on a journey that had felt longer than some of my business trips overseas. All I'd wanted was a quiet evening in a familiar place.

Instead, I'd walked into my own kitchen and found a half-naked stranger threatening me with a wooden spoon.

And now my grandmother was scolding me as if I'd personally ruined the evening.

I turned back to her.

"How long has she been here?"

"Since this afternoon," Maren answered before my grandmother could open her mouth.

I shot her a look.

She lifted her chin.

"What? You asked."

"I asked my grandmother."

"And I answered."

I drew in a slow breath through my nose.

Five minutes.

I needed five minutes without this woman speaking.

My grandmother stepped between us, apparently sensing that we were about to start another argument.

"Her name is Maren. She's a lovely young woman, and she's paid for the house. Everything is in order."

"Everything is in order?" I repeated. "You rented out a house you know I own, and you didn't think to tell me?"

"I know perfectly well who owns the house, Wade. I was there when you bought it."

"Then perhaps you remember that I never gave you permission to rent it."

"You also never told me you intended to move back."

"I didn't know I needed to announce my movements to you before coming to my own property."

"You haven't been here in months!"

"That doesn't mean I gave it away!"

My voice rose on the last words.

Poppy shifted on the sofa.

I caught the movement from the corner of my eye and immediately forced myself to calm down.

My grandmother noticed, too. Her expression softened briefly before she turned back to me.

"Wade, sweetheart, this house has been empty for far too long. It needs to be lived in. I thought renting it would be sensible."

"Then rent it to someone else."

Maren made a strangled sound.

I ignored her.

My grandmother folded her arms. "And where exactly do you expect Maren to go tonight?"

I looked at the young woman.

She looked back at me.

For the first time, I noticed that the anger in her face had begun to give way to something else. She looked tired. Not just sleepy, but deeply, thoroughly exhausted, as though she had been holding herself together for longer than she cared to admit.

It was none of my business.

I had enough problems of my own.

"That's not my responsibility," I said.

"No," my grandmother agreed. "It isn't. It's mine. And I gave her my word that she could stay here."

"Then you should have told me before you gave her your word."

"I should have," she admitted.

That stopped me.

I had expected another lecture. Perhaps a reminder that I'd been a difficult child or that I'd always been too stubborn for my own good.

I hadn't expected her to concede the point.

My grandmother stepped closer and lowered her voice.

"I should have called you. I'm sorry for that. But the girl has paid her rent, and I won't throw her out onto the street because you came home unexpectedly."

I stared at her.

Then I laughed once, without humor.

"You're making it sound as if I'm trying to leave her homeless."

"Aren't you?"

"No! I'm telling you that this arrangement doesn't work for me."

"And I'm telling you that you don't live here."

The room went quiet.

I looked at her.

She looked back at me with the sort of confidence that came from knowing exactly which buttons to push.

I glanced around the living room. At the familiar fireplace, the old wooden coffee table, the framed photographs on the wall. At the sofa where Poppy was sitting with her little legs dangling over the edge.

Then I looked at my grandmother.

"Well, I do now."

Her expression changed.

"What?"

"I said I'm staying here."

Maren's mouth fell open.

My grandmother blinked twice.

For the first time that evening, neither of them had an immediate response.

I almost enjoyed it.

Almost.

"I've been away for several days," I continued. "I'm exhausted, Poppy is exhausted, and I'm not dragging my daughter around town looking for somewhere else to sleep because you decided to play landlord without informing me. This house is mine. I have every right to stay here."

My grandmother pressed her lips together.

"And Maren?" she asked.

I looked at the woman opposite me.

She was staring at me as though I'd just announced that I planned to move into her bedroom.

"She can stay in the room she's rented," I said. "For now. We'll discuss the rest tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Maren repeated sharply.

I turned toward her.

"Yes. Tomorrow."

"And what exactly happens tomorrow?"

"We speak to my grandmother. We look at the agreement. We figure out what the hell is going on."

"I already know what's going on. I rented a house, and the owner showed up unannounced and decided he wanted it back."

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you're doing."

I stared at her, stunned by the sheer determination in her voice.

Most people, when faced with an angry man who owned the property they were occupying, would have chosen their words more carefully.

Not Maren Whitmore.

She looked ready to argue until sunrise.

"I haven't asked you to leave tonight," I reminded her.

"How generous."

I closed my eyes for a moment.

My grandmother made a sound that might have been a laugh.

I opened my eyes and glared at her.

"Don't encourage her."

"I'm not encouraging anyone," she said, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "I'm simply relieved that you've decided to be reasonable."

"Reasonable?" I repeated.

"Yes. You're staying in your own house, and Maren is staying in the room she paid for. Nobody is being thrown out tonight. That's reasonable."

"It's temporary."

"Of course."

The way she said it told me she didn't believe a word I was saying.

I knew that tone. I'd heard it throughout my childhood, usually just before she ignored whatever I'd asked her not to do.

I pointed toward the hallway.

"I'm taking the bedroom at the end of the corridor."

Maren immediately sat straighter.

"Which bedroom?"

"The one I've always used."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's the room I'm staying in."

I stared at her.

Of course it was.

Because why would anything about this evening make sense?

"You're sleeping in my bedroom?"

"I'm sleeping in the room the landlady gave me."

"That's my bedroom."

"Then perhaps you should have told your grandmother not to rent it out!"

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

I actually had no words.

My grandmother pressed a hand over her mouth, but I could see the amusement in her eyes.

I turned to her slowly.

"You gave her my bedroom?"

"I gave her the largest available room."

"Grandma."

"What? She needed somewhere comfortable to stay."

"And what am I supposed to do?"

"There's a perfectly good spare room upstairs."

I stared at her.

Then at Maren.

Then back at my grandmother.

The woman had rented out my house, given a stranger my bedroom, and now expected me to be grateful for the privilege of sleeping in the spare room.

I was going to lose my mind.

"Daddy?" Poppy's small voice interrupted.

I turned.

She was rubbing one eye, her earlier excitement fading as exhaustion finally caught up with her.

"Can we go to bed now?"

The question took the fight out of me.

I walked over and crouched in front of her.

"Of course, bug."

"Will you read me a story?"

"Two stories."

Her face brightened. "And can we have pancakes tomorrow?"

I smiled despite myself. "We'll see."

"That's what you always say."

"Because you always ask."

She giggled and wrapped her arms around my neck.

I hugged her tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair. Whatever happened with the house, whatever arguments waited for me in the morning, I wasn't going to let Poppy spend the night caught between two adults who couldn't get along.

I rose with her in my arms and turned toward the hallway.

"Grandma, we'll discuss this tomorrow. All of it."

She nodded. "Of course."

I didn't trust that answer.

I looked at Maren.

She was watching us, and for a moment, the sharpness had left her expression. Her eyes rested on Poppy's head where it lay against my shoulder.

Then she noticed me looking and quickly folded her arms again.

"Goodnight, Wade," she said stiffly.

I adjusted Poppy against my hip.

"Goodnight, Maren."

It was the first civil thing we'd said to each other all evening.

It was also the last.

As I walked toward the stairs, my grandmother called after me.

"And Wade?"

I stopped.

"What?"

"Try not to frighten the poor girl again. She seems to have had a difficult day."

I turned my head just enough to see Maren's expression.

She was glaring at me.

I looked back at my grandmother.

"Trust me. The feeling is mutual."

Then I carried my daughter upstairs, already dreading the morning.

Because one thing was certain.

Maren Whitmore wasn't leaving quietly.

And, apparently, neither was I.