The Belle and the Beard by Kate Canterbary (carter reed TXT) 📗

She pivoted from Midge's door, the drill in hand and the crowbar tucked under her arm. She didn't smile when she replied, "Hello there. Good morning. I'm all set, thank you."

In a silent dismissal, she turned back to the door.

Ash lifted his coffee, saying, "Should we call someone?"

"Unnecessary. We've got this." Leaving my brother behind, I stepped around the roses and crossed into Midge's yard, stopping a good distance from the door. Regardless of what was happening here, I wasn't going to be the guy who trapped a woman on a porch. Especially when that woman possessed several weapons and a thick cloud of fearlessness. "Excuse me. What are you doing?"

She shifted to face me again, her cocked hip the only visible reaction to my questioning. "I'm prying open the door as this lock is not interested in my key."

"So, you—you have a key."

She held up a chain, a single key dangling from the ring. A bedazzled charm in the shape of a peach winked from the other end of the chain. "I have a key."

There was honey in her voice, something warm and southern and completely at odds with the rest of her unhinge the jaw, drag you into the ocean, and crush your bones and destroy you like a kraken vibe.

"This is Midge's house," I replied. "And I'm sorry but I don't know who the hell you are so I'm gonna need some more information before I let you bust open her door."

"Before you let me. Mmhmm. That's fascinating."

I fisted my hands on my hips. "Is it?"

She blinked at me for a second before that expression of authority shifted into something much more terrifying. Her eyes brightened and her lips pulled up at the sides in the faintest whisper of a smile, and the trap of her momentary amusement distracted me long enough to realize she was gorgeous. Hair like rich bourbon, dark eyes, full, luscious curves. She reminded me of summer—screen doors banging in the breeze, ripe strawberries, and the kind of oppressive heat that sent sweat rolling down your back.

This, too, did something to me. I couldn't explain any part of it but I knew I was bothered enough by my reaction to continue arguing with her.

"Your concern is appreciated though unnecessary. Midge is my aunt. Rather, was my aunt."

"Your aunt," I repeated. I didn't remember hearing anything about a niece and I'd heard a whole fucking lot of Midge's stories. "She was your aunt?"

"That's right. She left this house to me."

Because all I could do was repeat her words back to her, I said, "She left the…house. To you. This house."

"That's what I said."

"Then why didn't she talk about you? She talked about every other damn thing that came to mind," I said.

"As I'm sure you're realizing, I have no way of answering that." She shifted and my belly flipped at the way she moved. Rather than bending at the waist, she crouched down, dropping her backside in a manner that caused her dress to fall around her legs like the curtain at the end of a play. It was dignified in a modest, vintage sense that didn't align with busting a door open or haphazard parking jobs.

I didn't get it. I didn't get anything about this woman.

And all of this really bothered me.

"I was the one who mentioned Midge. How do I know you're not breaking in and playing it off as being her long-lost niece?"

"Mmhmm. It seems we are well on our way to playing this little game." She set the drill and crowbar on the porch, sanded her palms together, and stood. "You mentioned Midge but you didn't mention she'd passed away. Yes, you could checkmate me there and suggest I was on the lookout for run-down homes and tried my luck with this one but then I'd have to ask you why I'd choose this polka dot of a house for my heist. It doesn't make good sense, not when there are multimillion dollar homes sitting empty down on Cape Cod and gullible doormen at every high-rise in Boston. The truth is, as it usually is, far less exciting than a whipped-up story of me as a mastermind burglar. Maureen Misselbush left me this place though I was unaware she'd left you in charge of enforcing the perimeter. That note wasn't in her will." Holding out her hand as she descended the steps, she said, "I'm Jasper-Anne Cleary. How do you do?"

2

Jasper

"I'm Jasper-Anne Cleary. How do you do?"

I marched down the porch steps, eyeing this great bear of a man intent on helping. The last thing—I mean, the very last thing—I could handle today was another person complicating my plans, let alone a brute who felt welcome to tromp all over my front yard and tell me where I belonged.

All I wanted to do was get inside, plug in my toaster oven, and sleep for twenty to thirty hours. Forty if my need for sustenance didn't win out in the middle. That was it—toast, sleep, and solitude, and not a single reminder that I'd ignored this cottage since Midge died two years ago.

I stopped on the second step from the bottom because if this guy planned on arguing with me over my rightful claim to the cottage, he'd need to haul himself on over here and give my hand a proper shake first. I wasn't about to close the distance for him.

He glanced at my hand from his position on the lawn, muttered something to himself, and charged forward like he and his beard had some serious doubts as to whether women were allowed to own property.

It was a damn good thing I'd stayed on the steps. He would've towered over me otherwise and we simply could not have that when it came to holy wars between homeowners.

He gave my hand an irritable glance before swallowing it up inside his for a quick shake that was substantially less aggressive than I'd expected from him. "Linden Santillian.