Rogue Gentleman (The Rourkes, Book 8) Read online

  I let out a breath and reach for the shampoo. I can’t relax until I know she’s back inside.

  “Now I really feel like we have to start over again!” She sounds closer, like she’s heading back toward me.

  I scowl and scrub the shampoo into my hair. I swear if she comes back here and offers her hand to shake in yet another introduction, I’m going to do something I regret. Like yell at her, and then she’ll go crying to Winnie, who’ll go from impatient with me to enraged. Forget finishing the renovation. Winnie will kick me out and replace me with another contractor. I love this old house, and I’ve put in so much work here already. I started the renovation back when Winnie and I were together, with a shared vision to bring this run-down gem back to its former glory. It’s from the 1880s, a twenty-foot-wide four-story townhouse with high ceilings and southern exposure, which brings in lots of light and makes it feel roomy. Before we broke up, I put in this garden and outdoor shower; plus I redid the roof and windows. I want to see it through. I want the pride and satisfaction of seeing this place restored. This is bigger than Winnie. Bigger than Josie. This is about me and my skill in restoring this historic beauty.

  I glance at the bench, where I left my briefs, and realize I forgot my towel. Shit.

  “You still there?” I ask.

  Silence.

  “Josie?”

  “Um, yeah. Heading back inside now!”

  I speak through my teeth. “Can you please get me a towel from the large duffel bag upstairs? It’s by my air mattress.”

  “You sleep on an air mattress? The couch has got to be more comfortable—”

  “Towel!”

  “Right!”

  I shift so I can see when she gets to the back deck. The moment she gets there, she stops and calls to me in her loud theater voice, “We’ll take two—or is it three or four?—on the intros once you’re dressed!”

  I shake my head and tip it back in the spray. I am so screwed.

  Chapter Two

  Josie

  Well, this is an inauspicious beginning. Since when is there an outdoor shower in Grandmom’s backyard? I find the duffel bag and pull out a thick blue towel. Sean Rourke, an actual prince. Winnie mentioned it when she offered to let me crash here, and I saw all the media buzz about his family reconciling with the royal family in Villroy. His older brother, Dylan’s wedding this past weekend was a big deal. It was the first time someone on the exiled side of the family was married in the royal chapel. I caught glimpses of the wedding on the news on my flight out here.

  Winnie says Sean’s been here since she moved out. Ten months on an air mattress with a couple of duffel bags? Not exactly what you’d expect from a prince. He’s worse than me, crashing on friends’ couches. Actually, they weren’t all friends of mine. I found this app called Couch Crasher, which is a network of actors looking for a free couch for a short stay. My last couch in LA was a bad experience. It was at a woman’s apartment, but she had this giant skeeze of a boyfriend and, when she stepped out to get him beer, he propositioned me. I said no, and then he got a predatory look in his eye that sent chills through me. He took one menacing step toward me, and I turned and ran to my only available escape—the bedroom. I locked the door and pushed the dresser against it. He pounded on the door so hard I swore it would splinter.

  I dialed 911 with shaking hands, ignoring the vicious insults he was shouting at me. The cops arrived at the same time as the woman who lived there. I made it out safely and called Winnie, telling her the harrowing story. She’s six years older than me and always felt more like a supportive big sister than a cousin. She insisted I quit the Couch Crasher app, which I would’ve anyway after that, and invited me to stay with her and Colin. I really didn’t want to intrude on them. And, honestly, Colin is one of those rigid uptight guys who make me tense.

  Anyway, Winnie then told me I could crash on the couch at our grandmother’s former place in Brooklyn. It seemed ideal. Brooklyn is cool, and I could commute to the city for auditions and to visit Winnie. She did warn me about Sean, saying he was a big old grump, but also a complete gentleman, and it would be like having a security guard around here. Her exact words to describe the grump? An older, protective sort of man with a sense of honor. Winnie’s thirty, so I was picturing a grumbling, middle-aged guy in droopy dad jeans. She must’ve meant older than me. I’m twenty-four. Young hot guy took me by surprise.

  I don’t mind a little grumpiness as long as I can finally let go of the jumpy scared feeling that I’m suddenly going to be chased down by an aggressive man again. I’m not sure if it was Winnie’s description of Sean as protective or just his natural presence, but I immediately felt safe with him. This is a man who’ll watch your back for you.

  I head downstairs, slip on my cute metallic pink Birkenstock sandals (a birthday gift from Winnie), snag my driver’s license from my wallet, and head to the backyard with Sean’s towel.

  “It’s your roomie!” I call as I approach the shower area. “I’ve got your towel and my ID, and I’m totally not looking.” Boy, did I get an eyeful earlier. I had to stop in the yard and take a moment for a silent wow. He is hung, and it was pointing right at me. Because of me? Or because he’s one of those guys who regularly jerks off in the shower? Hmm…he seems to find me irritating, so it was probably just his usual shower routine. I get it. Tension relief.

  “Leave it on the bench,” he growls. “Please,” he adds belatedly.

  I do; then I slap a hand over my eyes and hold up my driver’s license in his direction. “I didn’t realize you installed a shower out here. That’s smart with the renovation.”

  “Could ya step away from the shower area?”

  “Did you see my license?”

  “Yeah, I saw it. Move it, please, away from the shower area.”

  I back away a few steps. He has an awesome Brooklyn accent I’m going to practice later. I have a knack for picking up regional accents after traveling most of my childhood with my opera singer mother. I never had roots or a true home, still don’t. Sometimes I long for that stability. It’s not easy to keep starting over in a new place, which is probably why I’ve learned to make myself at home wherever I land.

  “More away,” he demands.

  It’s a little late to be shy, but I respect his request and wander over to a border of deep purple tulips. I sense his glowering presence a few moments later and turn just as he stalks past me, heading for the house.

  I catch up with him. “If you want the couch, I could take the air mattress.”

  He keeps walking, seeming to be in a hurry. I keep up. “If I wanted to sleep on the couch, I would have. It’s mine. I made it.”

  “You made it? Wow! That’s amazing. It’s very comfortable.” The couch is this deep blue cushy thing deep enough for two people to lounge on, almost like a full-size bed. It occurs to me he used to lounge on it with Winnie. Maybe he made it for her. “You’re very talented.”

  He grunts in response like I’m irritating him again, but still holds the door for me, waiting for me to go inside ahead of him. Winnie was right—gentleman material.

  “Thank you,” I say as I brush by him. His piercing blue eyes meet mine briefly before he looks away, his dark scruffy jaw tight. He inclines his head the tiniest amount in acknowledgment of my thank you. Grumpy meets manners. He can’t always be grumpy though, right? I’m sure we can get along if we just get back on the right foot.

  He heads upstairs to get dressed, and I watch him go, admiring the hard planes of muscle on his broad shoulders and back. Definitely ideal security-guard material. No one would dare mess with him. How could Winnie leave out the bulging muscles? Yeah, I appreciate them. What woman wouldn’t?

  “I can feel your eyes boring into my back,” he announces.

  I flush and improvise away my obvious ogling. “Winnie said you’re protective, so I was just wondering if you used to be a security guard.”

  “No.” He stops short and turns. His shoulders draw back and his ch
est puffs out. “So she did talk about me.”

  “Only recently when she offered the couch.” He deflates, so I quickly add, “She also said you were a gentleman.”

  He frowns. “Yeah, well, I’m thinking of hanging up that title.” He turns and heads upstairs.

  “Why?”

  “Not working out for me,” he grumbles.

  I lean toward the stairwell where he just disappeared. “I think it’s nice.”

  “Could ya please give me some privacy?” he barks.

  Geez. Grump is out in full force. I can win him over. I’m a very likeable person. That’s what my agent always says I have going for me. I win them over in the audition room just by being myself, even before I perform. It’s why I keep booking pilots. This is my third one. The other two weren’t picked up, but third time’s the charm. Plus, I’ve done a perfume commercial and an educational series for school libraries. Don’t worry, Mom and Dad, that BFA in drama from NYU is totally paying off! My student loans are killer, which is another reason I live as frugally as possible (besides not having a steady job). I’ll get there. It’s just a matter of the right project at the right time. Two years of auditioning and scraping by will all be like a distant dream once I get my big break. It only takes one.

  I allow myself a small sigh before putting my license away and grabbing my shower stuff. That was good timing to find out about the shower. I moved in yesterday morning, so now that I don’t have to make the daily trek to the gym for a shower, it frees up my schedule a bit. Not that it was overly full with the gym, improv class, and auditions. I’m not taking a waitressing job unless the pilot falls through, which it won’t. My time is now. I believe, I believe, I believe.

  Ooh, I know! I’ll make Sean breakfast before he goes off to work. He’s got the kind of job that requires lots of calories to sustain. Unlike the usual guys I meet, he gets those bulging muscles from actually using them, not from reps at a gym. I appreciate a hard worker since I am too, always hustling to make my career happen.

  Once I’m under the shower spray, I’m surprised at how awesome it is. Good water pressure, warm, and it really is private out here with the wooden walls of the shower, the nearby rose trellises, and assorted plantings. I wonder if Sean was the one who turned my grandmother’s modest garden into this paradise, and then my mind immediately shifts to Sean naked. I saw him in his full glory. Not that I’m interested. He acts like I’m a major inconvenience. Plus it’s weird with him being Winnie’s ex.

  Winnie inherited our grandmother’s townhouse because she was close to her. I was too young to get to know my grandmother that well, and my parents and I didn’t visit her much because she was a little cool to my parents on account of my straitlaced dad (her son) disappointing her by marrying my artsy mother. My grandmother thought my mom’s career took her away too much for her to be a good wife and mother, and they had a falling-out over it. But Dad and I traveled with Mom all over the world, and our little family was close. My parents live in Nashville now, which is cool, but not convenient for me to live there and still audition regularly. Mom’s career wound down with age, as often happens with women’s roles in the opera. Age prejudice sucks. She still has a beautiful voice. I can sing too, but my passion is the movies, which I hope one day to be in.

  I skip washing my hair since I did it yesterday and go for the soap. I’m supposed to hear in the next two or three weeks about my pilot, and then I’m heading to LA. Grouchy Prince Sean is my temporary roomie. That’s it. And it does give me peace of mind knowing there’s a big strong guy around. It’s not like that skeeze from LA is going to follow me here, but still. It doesn’t hurt anyone for me to imagine Sean as my unofficial guard. I’ll probably never have to call on him, but I could if I needed to, and that’s the important part.

  “Fantasy guard,” I sing to myself as I wash. “How I welcome thee!” Threw a little Shakespeare style in there. I’m used to entertaining myself.

  A few minutes later, I dry off and feel a little chilly. I rush inside, throw on some clothes—V-neck green T-shirt and black yoga pants—and head for the small kitchen. It’s right next to the cozy den on the garden-level first floor, where I’m crashing on the couch. It’s also the only floor with a functioning bathroom. What a nice place to land. I can hear Sean stomping around upstairs. Maybe he’s getting some tools in place for his work here later. Winnie says he works nights and weekends on this place. I’m sure he’ll appreciate a hearty breakfast before he goes to his day job.

  I open the refrigerator and find only eggs, milk, and sliced stuff from the deli. I check the deli wrapper labels—ham and provolone. There’s bread on the counter too. If only I was a genius chef and knew how to whip up something special from basic ingredients. Well, grilled cheese is carb and protein. That seems good for sustained energy. I’ll add ham too. Hey, am I making a croque monsieur? I just might be. Lucky Sean to get a fancy hot breakfast before work. This will definitely get us back on track. I really can’t take a tense home environment. I’m used to relaxed and easy.

  I find a skillet in a cabinet and set it on the stove, turning on the gas flame. What else? Is there butter? I look around in case he leaves it out on the counter somewhere and then double-check the refrigerator, but there isn’t any. I check the cabinets for oil or spray and come up short. Maybe the pan is already coated with some kind of nonstick stuff. No problem. I pull out a plate and assemble my very first croque monsieur (I think) and set it on the skillet.

  I get us both glasses of water and set them on the beige laminate-topped island. I glance over at the croque monsieur, which still looks fine, so I set two napkins down, folded neatly on the diagonal. After his sandwich is done, I’ll make one for me too.

  I smell something burning and hurry over to flip the sandwich. Crap. Where’s the spatula? I rifle through the drawers, wasting valuable flipping time, until I finally find it. I flip it over, and the now-melted cheese hits the skillet with a sharp sizzle. The bread is blackened, and smoke rises from the pan. I fan the smoke away. It’s still salvageable. I can scrape off this black stuff and it’ll taste great. I just need to wait a few minutes for this side to get nice and toasty. Damn, it’s really smoky in here. I cough and open the back door in what was once a small dining room and is now empty space. I need a breeze. I open and close the door several times to air it out and, when that doesn’t work, I rush to the window on the other side of the space in the den and open it.

  Beep-beep-beep! Oh no! I set off the smoke detector. I turn off the stove and locate the smoke detector on the ceiling near the stairs. I can’t quite reach to turn it off. It’s not a fire just smoke! No need for alarm! I jump a few times in an attempt to push the button off and then go up a couple of steps and try to reach that way. No go. I fan the smoke away frantically with both hands.

  “What the hell?” Sean barks from behind me.

  I whirl and yell above the high-pitched beeping, “Can you turn it off? I can’t reach. It’s just smoke from burnt bread.”

  He reaches up and turns it off easily. He’s probably six feet tall. “Great.”

  I relax as the beeping finally ceases. “I made you breakfast.”

  “Ya mean the burnt bread?”

  “Just a little. I’ll scrape off the burnt part.”

  He sits down on the steps and drops his head in his hands. His dark brown hair flops forward, still a little damp from the shower. He looks worn out and slightly despairing. I’m a careful observer of body language and expressions for my actor toolbox.

  “I’ll make you a fresh one,” I offer in an upbeat tone. Don’t despair, roomie!

  He lifts his head. “The smoke detectors are the high-end kind from the home security company. They’re wired to automatically call the fire department. Ya can’t cancel the call once it goes out. I tried once before when Winnie burned dinner. They have to investigate and follow a routine inspection procedure.”

  “Winnie burned dinner? But she’s a domestic goddess.”

&nb
sp; He gives me serious side-eye. “I distracted her.”

  I open my mouth and then shut it again. Sex thing, got it. Though it’s hard to imagine my sweet, domestic goddess cousin with this rough-around-the-edges construction worker. I have so many questions.

  He exhales sharply. “Now I’m gonna have to deal with them and wait for the all clear before I can get to work. Another delay. Just what I need.”

  “I’ll take care of it. You go ahead to work.”

  “I work here,” he says through his teeth.

  “Oh, I thought you only worked here nights and weekends.”

  “I took the week off to make a dent in the renovation.”

  I glance toward the kitchen. “So, do you want to eat while we wait for the fire department?”

  He lets out a breath and stalks over to the kitchen. I join him, and we both stare at the blackened sandwich with brown curdled cheese and ham glued to the skillet.

  “I’m sure it still tastes good,” I say. “It’s a croque monsieur.” My French accent is spot on. Mom’s job took us to Paris many times.

  He gives me a skeptical look, his brows lifting. “Then you eat it.”

  I grab the spatula and work to get the sandwich off the skillet, jabbing it from several directions before it finally comes off mostly intact. I set it on the plate I left on the counter, grab a knife, and scrape it down to the nonburnt part of the bread. I can sense his judgey eyes on me, but I ignore that because I’m determined to make my kind breakfast gesture the cornerstone of our friendly living arrangement. Once he sees proof that my cooking is adequate, he’ll eat this kind gesture up.

  I smile at him before taking a big bite of sandwich. Gross. “Delicious,” I lie, holding it in the corner of my mouth. It tastes like smoke and something both funky and slippery.

  He laughs. “The ham and cheese are ancient.”

  I grab a napkin and spit it out. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “More fun this way.” He glances over at the island, where I’ve set our glasses of water and napkins. “You don’t hafta cook for me.”