"I'm Jasper-Anne Cleary. How do you do?"
I marched down the porch steps, eyeing this great bear of a man intent on helping. The last thing—I mean, the very last thing—I could handle today was another person complicating my plans, let alone a brute who felt welcome to tromp all over my front yard and tell me where I belonged.
All I wanted to do was get inside, plug in my toaster oven, and sleep for twenty to thirty hours. Forty if my need for sustenance didn't win out in the middle. That was it—toast, sleep, and solitude, and not a single reminder that I'd ignored this cottage since Midge died two years ago.
I stopped on the second step from the bottom because if this guy planned on arguing with me over my rightful claim to the cottage, he'd need to haul himself on over here and give my hand a proper shake first. I wasn't about to close the distance for him.
He glanced at my hand from his position on the lawn, muttered something to himself, and charged forward like he and his beard had some serious doubts as to whether women were allowed to own property.
It was a damn good thing I'd stayed on the steps. He would've towered over me otherwise and we simply could not have that when it came to holy wars between homeowners.
He gave my hand an irritable glance before swallowing it up inside his for a quick shake that was substantially less aggressive than I'd expected from him. "Linden Santillian. That's my place." Dropping my hand, he pointed to the twin cottage next door. "Like I said, I didn't know Midge had a niece."
I offered Linden the most practiced smile in my arsenal. This smile never failed me. It'd charmed crusty old politicians and bulldog-belligerent donors. It'd greased the wheels with incessant reporters, errant mistresses, and more than a few strict security details. It was going to work on this guy too. It always did. "I didn't know she had a guard dog for a neighbor."
"Excuse me but it looked like you were breaking and entering."
"It's not breaking and entering when it's your house. It's just opening a stuck door with the help of some tools."
His only response was a hard stare which I would've interpreted a million different ways if I had the energy. I really didn't.
I hit him with the smile again. It had to work this time. It was all I had left. "Thanks for checking in. It was real nice visiting with you."
I scooted back up the steps to the front door. The blasted thing stood as one last mile in the most unpleasant marathon of a week in my whole life, and much like me, it was both falling apart and standing stubbornly firm.
As I collected the crowbar from the porch floor, I heard, "Wait just one second."
"Sorry. Can't. Won't." I attacked the door again, going for the splintered wood between the lock and the jamb where there seemed to be a bit of wiggle. Just as I started to feel some give, the bar flew out of my hands. I whirled around to find Linden glowering at me. "May I ask what you think you're doing?"
"That's not the right way to do it," he said.
"Certainly not," I replied. "Not when there's an excessively helpful neighbor man here to do it for me." He gestured for me to step aside. I didn't. "You've mistaken me for someone who requires assistance. You've also mistaken me for someone who can put up with even a minute of nonsense after the week I've had. Here's what you need to understand. I don't care whether I do this wrong so long as I do it."
