Page 6 of Dahlia Made A List

She huffed. “I did not. And uncool of you to ask me that, too. I am a professional.”

“You’re a Pendleton first.”

“We’re not all cast in Dad’s mold.”

“I know, I know.” I eyed the Volkswagen as the little car shimmied between my vehicle and the SUV in front of it. Pure contrariness had me holding firm at the tail of my truck. Ass resting on the gate, I leaned back, with one boot crossed over the other. I didn’t budge. Which left the genius limited room to exit his spot along the curb. But I liked my peace and quiet and as far as I was concerned, he was the reason it’d been ruined today.

“You know me better, Wy. I hate when you say stuff like that.”

“You’re right, Millsy. I was outta line.”

“But you can tell Grams there’s a typo on the contracts and I’ll get new ones done up with the correct numbers.”

“Miller.”

“You’re overpaying and you damn well know it, Wyatt Weston.”

“Market value is not overpaying.”

“It is when no one else wants that decrepit old property.”

“I do.” And I wasn’t a Pendleton. No way I’d swindle my own grandmother, crafty or not. “I’ll apologize for your sneak attack on an old woman when I see Grams tonight.”

“Not like she needs the money.”

“Irrelevant.”

The pretty boy gave up his attempt to pull out of his spot with me still taking up more than half the free space at the rear of his Volkswagen. He catapulted out of the old beater, stomping to stand at the driver side quarter panel, and turned his hound dog look my way. The corner of my mouth twitched. I scratched my chin with the hand not holding the phone.

“Do you mind?”

I rearranged my lean on the Silverado and settled right back.

“I’m trying to leave, buddy.”

“Millsy,” I said, ignoring Pretty Boy. “What time am I supposed to be at Grams’s tonight?”

“Seven.”

“Then I’ll be at your office before five to pick up the corrected paperwork—”

“Look, buddy, I don’t have all day.”

I listened to Millsy ramble on in my ear and didn’t look up from contemplating Pretty Boy’s license plate.

Vanity tag, of course. BREW.

That’s it. Just BREW.

“Brandon, come catch this if you wanna keep it!”

My tenant stood at the balustrade I’d installed just over two years ago. I’d bought the long-neglected building and restored it inch by grueling inch and converted the layout into two lucrative rental properties.

Never over the course of the renovation had I ever pictured a Shakespearian comedy playing out on the modest balcony. No sweet Juliet up there, but a case could be made for a shrewish Kate.

She’d changed into a T-shirt and tiny shorts while her ex picked up his scattered crap. Her breasts pressed against the rail as she leaned over, promising more than a pleasurable handful. Clouds dotted the sky, dark and heavy with the portent of an evening summer storm. Wind whipped her golden brown hair around her taut face. No, not Katherina, nothing so tame. More a Valkyrie calling down the wrath of her gods.

For a moment, our eyes snagged across the distance. Whatever she saw on my face put a stubborn jut to the curve of her chin. Her pretty blues flashed with the fiery sparks of a woman done wrong. She jerked her gaze free of mine and raised the object in her hand.

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