The dog’s hackles rose, and he growled low in his throat.
“Mais, who you are?” the man demanded, shooting Oso a nervous look. Then glaring at Cruz. His Cajun accent or a shitload of cheap whiskey slurred his speech.
“The man standing on the inside of this door,” Cruz told him coldly. “Come back tomorrow when you’re sober.”
The guy put his foot in the door. “The lady hired m—”
Even the de minimis intrusion pissed him off. Cruz slammed his palm up into his nose and had the satisfaction of hearing a crunch. The guy was drunk at eight in the morning. Drunk and belligerent. The combo spelled wild card and was sure to fuck with Cruz’s plans for Mia/Amelia.
This time next week, what the garden looked like would be immaterial.
Oso continued the low growl, but didn’t make any move to attack. Not that Cruz gave a fuck. Marcel clutched his nose. Blood dribbled through his fingers. “Merde!”
“Don’t bother coming back. Tomorrow or any other time. Consider this all the notice you’re going to get.”
“You can’t do that—” Marcel started banging on the door when Cruz shut it in his face.
Pissed off, Cruz headed back to the kitchen and the unappetizing smell as the pounding stopped. How could she be so goddamned stupid as to invite a lowlife like that into her home? Either she was supremely confident that her slippery tactics and flunkies would keep her safe, or she was below average in the street-smarts department.
Disproportionately annoyed, because she had, after all, fucked his brains out and invited him in for a second go at her, Cruz strode down the hall and into the kitchen, the dog, tail wagging, at his heels.
Mia glanced up as she ladled eggs—burned again, to judge by the smell—and charred bacon onto the plates. “Was that Marcel? I’ll just go and tell him—”
Cruz motioned the dog under the table. “Jehovah’s Witness.”
“All the way out here?” she asked, clearly surprised as she sat down at the table under the window, unfolding a cloth napkin on her lap. She gave her plate a dubious look.
Cruz shoved the chair out with his foot, then dropped into the hard seat opposite her. The food looked as unappetizing as hell. Rubbery, singed eggs and bacon that crumbled to dusty charcoal before he managed to get it to his mouth. He tossed it down to Oso, who sniffed it, then dropped his head back onto his paws, keeping his eyes on Cruz as if asking where the hell that breakfast was that he’d been promised.
Cruz ignored the dog. He didn’t do dependents. It would eat when he did.
Mia wrinkled her nose. Cruz didn’t want to be captivated by her, but he was. “Not edible,” she admitted, taking up his plate without apology. “I’ll make toast—”
He got to his feet, too. He was hungry, and toast wasn’t going to satisfy him. With no time to waste after he had fucked her, he’d picked up his truck, driven to NOLA, found the dog, and come straight back. Only a small part of him had hoped she’d be exactly where he’d left her. Now that he’d been offered breakfast, he was starving. She carried their plates to the garbage can, where she scraped off the food. She didn’t think it was fit for the dog either.
Opening the Sub-Zero—which looked incongruous in the old-fashioned (and not in a good way) kitchen—he took out the carton of eggs and the milk.
She turned to him, eyebrow arched.
“I’m starving. I need protein. I’ll make the eggs. If you really want to learn, stick around. I’ll show you.”
“Now, why does that sound like an order?” she asked, tone dry. “I’m all for learning new things, but if you’re looking for a sycophant, I’m not your girl.”
No subtext there. The lady was used to being in charge. “Sometimes,” he told her smoothly, “it’s more interesting to be on the receiving end of things.” While she’d come multiple times, the intervening hours had given her plenty of time to have second thoughts about just who was in control. She was in for one hell of an eye-opener.
He held out his palm. “Hand me the butter.”
Chapter Four
He’d brazenly parked his yellow pickup truck, with a rusted, old-fashioned camper hauled behind it, right near the back porch steps that needed fixing. Without asking permission. She hardly knew him—he was a stranger in all ways except one—but it hadn’t taken her long to figure out that the man wanted to do what he wanted to do . . . and did it. No permission requested.
As a CEO, she certainly appreciated that quality in a person, but it didn’t compute that a man who demanded power and control would be doing odd jobs as a handyman. Mia was surprised that he hadn’t reached a higher standing in life. She looked at the heap of rusty and dented metal behind his truck. He couldn’t live in that thing, could he? The camper looked barely high enough for him to stand up in. If he lived in that pile of tin, he must really need this job. Mia wondered what his story was.