Page 10 of The Lucky One

How did he even get in here?

“Because you don’t belong here? Because stranger danger?”

He ignores me and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You probably scared my dog.”

My brain is officially short-circuiting.

Weston ishere, in my rental. Quite at home I might add.

And he’s got a dog. I never pinned Weston as a dog person, but I’ve also only met the man twice.

He isnotsupposed to be here.

Despite my thoughts calming down, my nervous system is still in full-blown fight or flight. So I grab a pillow and heave it at his face.

He catches it mid-air and tosses it onto the couch. “That’s unnecessary. Are you always this violent?”

“Me? Who breaks into a house to take a nap?” I shout.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, grabbing a shirt off the back of the couch and pulling it over his head. “Why did you break in here while I was taking a nap? If you wanted an autograph all you had to do was ask.”

My hands curl into fists at my sides.“I didn’t break in.”

“I didn’t either.” He pauses, then whistles. “Bailey! Come here, boy.”

“What do you mean, you didn’t break in? What else would you call it?”

Weston bends as a fluff of a golden retriever trots to him, barely giving a glance in my direction. You’d think I hadn’t just practically gone Final Girl on him with the way he’s so casually dealing with everything.

“I booked this place for the next few weeks.” His voice drops to a low tone as he leans closer to the dog. “Didn’t we? Did that crazy lady scare you? She scared me, too. Who’s a good boy? You are.”

Dread coils in my belly. He can’t be serious. Can he?

I booked this place on the website for the next week and a half. It’s mine, fair and square. Without saying another word, I turn to my bag and dig out my phone, my fingers dancing across the screen as I unlock it and pull up the app to double check.

It’s unnecessary really, because I called and confirmed. I printed the reservations.

The planner on my passenger seat contains nearly all the information, color-coded and ready for presentation to anyone who asks.

The problem is that if he has the same information, we’rebothright.

And that’s definitely a problem.

He straightens from the couch, wincing with the movement. “You’ve got a look on your face that says I’m right.”

Of all the people for this to happen with.

He raises an eyebrow as he crosses his arms across his chest, and I try to erase the image burned into my brain of the cut muscles beneath the fabric.

I’m mentally mashing on the delete button like my life depends on it.

We hate him, remember? Just look how inflated his ego is.

Bailey trots over to me and sits, peering up at me with chocolate brown eyes.

Do dogs really look like their owners? Because the pair of them is too much in my current situation.

“It’s fine. I’ll get to the bottom of this!” I announce, my voice taking on a higher note than I usually speak with.

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