Summer at Seaside Cove by Jacquie D'Alessandro Read Free Book Online Page B

you, I’ll just die! You’re my new best friend! Did I mention that I love you?
    She cleared her throat, then returned her attention to Nick. “The fact that you’re the owner—that’s why I’m here. To discuss the deplorable condition of your rental property.”
    An invisible lightbulb went off over Nick’s head as understanding seeped into his sluggish brain. Obviously Princess Vodka here wasn’t down with the rustic conditions. He should have known the renter would be someone who didn’t understand what “as is” meant. “There’s nothing deplorable about Paradise Lost. You didn’t have to sleep in a chair—there are beds you know.”
    â€œUh-huh. But none that look overly comfortable.”
    â€œMaybe not, but they’re better than sleeping on a folding chair.”
    â€œEven after spending the night on a folding chair, I’m not necessarily convinced of that. Besides, I was looking out the window, waiting for you to come home.”
    Oh, great. She was not only a door-pounding, bell-ringing whiner, but a stalker as well. “I take it the accommodations aren’t to your liking.”
    â€œThat’s putting it mildly. Those two missing bottom steps are a broken leg waiting to happen. Are you looking for a lawsuit?”
    His gaze dropped to her legs, which looked long and curvy and definitely not broken. “Of course not—”
    â€œAnd then there’s the leaky roof. Water plopped on my head all night. No matter where I moved that folding chair, the damn drip seemed to follow. I’m lucky the ceiling didn’t cave in on me. The furniture looks like something you picked up on the side of the road, the entire place doesn’t look like it’s been painted since the turn of the century, there’s no dishwasher or air conditioner, and some idiot left a bag of clams in the sink.”
    Clams . . . Nick’s memory kicked in. He’d stopped at Paradise Lost three days ago on his way home from his most successful clamming expedition yet and set down his catch while he’d fixed the dripping bathroom faucet. He’d put them in the fridge . . . hadn’t he? Damn—had he left them in the sink? He’d couldn’t recall, and he’d completely forgotten about them until just now. But thinking about the fridge suddenly reminded him about the bottle he’d left in the freezer—
    â€œYou drank my vodka,” he accused, his voice filled with righteous indignation.
    She looked at him as if he’d grown a third eye in the middle of his forehead. “Right after I tossed your clams. Believe me, I needed a drink.”
    â€œYou threw away my clams?” Jesus. She really was the renter from hell. “Why on earth would you do that?”
    For several seconds she didn’t speak—just sawed her jaw back and forth as if she was chewing glass. Then she drew a deep breath, which she released very slowly, scenting the air between them with a trace of vodka and . . . peanuts? . . . and said through gritted teeth, “Because they were dead. And they stunk bad enough to make my eyes water. ” Each sentence grew in volume and added another layer of color to her cheeks. “And they were dripping that foul stench everywhere . It was disgusting . And in spite of wrapping my hands in three Piggly Wiggly bags, I may never get the smell off me. ”
    Wow. No doubt about it, this was one pissed-off woman. She looked like Vesuvius about to blow. In fact, there might even be steam wisping from her ears. Normally he was smart enough to step away from any female with murder in her eyes, but he wasn’t feeling particularly brilliant this morning. Especially toward a woman who was a clam murderer.
    â€œLook, whatever your name is—”
    â€œJamie Newman. How is it that you don’t even know the name of the person you rented your rundown, crappy shack to?”
    Okay,