Zoya Hart has been eluding her gold-digging stepmother for the last few years. Knowing that this woman will do anything to gain control of her and her late father's company, Zoya finds herself hiding out on a farm. Now, with a PI on her trail, Zoya'...
"Chili goes after chicken noodle!" She shoved her shoulder into his chest as she put it in place. What was wrong with him? She gritted her teeth. Any idiot could see the order. Fruit. Soup. Vegetable. "You're messing up everything!"
"Well, fuck me. Didn't know I had to alphabetize. You've got too many goddamn rules. Don't feed the cats. Don't get fucking crumbs on the floor. Dry the dishrag." He moved away and set the whiskey bottle he'd been holding down with a thud. "There were nothing but rules in prison. I'm done following rules. Live with it or leave."
She wanted to say more, but he'd been drinking. Not a good time to argue. For all she knew, he could be a mean drunk. She'd heard that term on The Catch. Alcohol sometimes brought out the worst, and she didn't want to risk it. She stormed past him to her room. It reminded her of her dad toward the end. Marion would drink and drink and even raised a hand to hit Zoya once. She could still feel the burning slap across her cheek sometimes.
For the next two hours, Zoya put the final touches on the mural, then stepped back and admired the results. Clouds as fluffy as cotton candy floated across an aqua sky while a pair of birds circled overhead. Twisting vines climbed the wall of the weathered shed where stalks of pink hollyhocks rose above a mass of zinnias.
Miss Charamel stood in the garden, hands on hips, cats at her feet. Everything the old lady loved. Zoya suspected that was the reason she and Charamel got along so well. Simple things made her happy.
By the time she cleaned her brushes and got ready for bed, it was almost midnight. She'd heard Roman go into his room an hour ago. She slid the laptop onto her thighs, brought up the Breaux Bridge Daily classifieds, and scrolled to the rental property. If she found a place as secluded as this, she'd leave. Only seven house listings. One by one, she ruled them out. Too big. Bad location. Too expensive.
She snapped the lid closed and flopped back onto the bed. No. She had to stay here. This was where Dad wanted her to live. He and Charamel had an agreement. No matter what, Zoya wasn't leaving.
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The next morning, Roman waited until he heard his unwelcome houseguest drive away before coming from his bedroom. The girl was nuts. He'd never seen anyone get so bent out of shape about chili in the wrong place. The fact she had the damn pantry alphabetized was crazy enough, but to go ballistic was another matter.
Later today, the construction men would arrive and if a can being out-of-order drove her into a fit, having strangers in the house should make her run away screaming. He turned on the coffeemaker. Next to it sat a saucer with two biscuits covered with plastic wrap and a note.
Sorry I yelled at you.
Damn kid. If the pantry incident riled her, his next action was liable to give her a stroke. He felt a little bad about yelling at her. As fucked up as it was, and it probably was, part of him enjoyed riling her up. She was feisty when provoked.
