The nickname hits its mark—I feel it like a spark to dry grass—but I press my lips together and power through the urge to rise to it. One disaster at a time.
“Mycottage,” I bite out, pointing behind me “isfloodedbecausesomeoneinthis house,” —I gesture wildly behind him— “has been pouring grease down the drain like they've never heard of proper disposal methods!”
Grant's eyes finally widen with understanding, then flicker with what looks suspiciously like guilt. “Mia, I can explain, that wasn’t me—,” he mutters.
“I don't care who did it,” I continue, building steam now. “My temporary home is underwater with disgusting gunk, and the plumber says it's coming from here!”
“Look, I'm sorry about—”
“Sorry doesn't fix my flooded cottage!Sorrydoesn't give me somewhere to stay for the 'couple of weeks' it'll take to fix!”
“Look, I understand you're upset—” he puts his hands up.
“Upset?Upset?” I practically shriek like a deranged banshee. “Oh I'mwaaaypast upset! I'm—”
My tirade is instantly interrupted by movement behind him when a beautiful woman appears, sliding her arm around Grant's waist with the ease and familiarity of a lover.
“What's all the commotion?” she asks, her voice honey-sweet as her eyes assess me from head to toe.
My words die in my throat.
This woman is gorgeous—tall and willowy with perfectly styled blonde hair and the kind of casual elegance that only comes with money. She's wearing an oversized men's shirt that barely covers her thighs, clearly comfortable in Grant's space.
Exactly like…agirlfriend.
The bile rises in my throat at the thought. Of course he has a girlfriend.
And of course, she looks like a walking Pinterest board of effortless cool, while I look like your average swamp witch.
The embarrassment hits me like a physical blow as memories of our kiss flash through my mind. Him between my thighs looking up at me, his filthy words sending me over the edge. Oh God, I kissed someone's boyfriend. In a restroom for goodness sake! Like some horny little homewrecker.
And he kissed me, and all that teasing, all that tension—it wasn’t just somerandomflirtation. Ifeltit. And the whole damn time, he had her here.
I narrow my eyes at him, my jaw clenches so tight, I swear I might break a tooth.
Across from me, the blonde goddess releases Grant and folds her arms with the kind of practiced grace that screams confidence and territory claimed.
She gives Grant a look so sharp it could file steel, and I almost want to applaud. It’s the kind of disappointment that says, “Really? You brought the drama home and let it piss on the welcome mat?”
To his credit, Grant has the decency to look vaguely uncomfortable.
I finally pull myself together, squaring my shoulders. “Look, I'm sorry for interrupting your morning,” I say stiffly, deliberately taking a step back from Grant and hisgirlfriend. “but yourboyfriendhere flooded my house.” I snap, my voice tight butcontrolled, only because screaming would be undignified…or at least anymorescreaming would be.
Grant opens his mouth—probably to offer some half-assed explanation—but his girlfriend cuts him off.
To my surprise, she looks genuinely concerned. “What happened?”
“Fatberg,” I say, the ridiculous word sounding even more absurd now. “A buildup of cooking oil and grease in the pipes. Coming from this house.”
“Christian,” Grant and the woman say simultaneously, exchanging knowing looks.
“Who's Christian?” I ask, then shake my head. “Never mind. It doesn't matter. The point is, my rental is uninhabitable, and according to the plumber, it's your fault.”
Grant runs one hand through his damp hair, and sighs, scrubbing the other hand down his face. “I’m real sorry about this, Mia. My brother’s not usually allowed in the kitchen—man’s a Marine machine, but a walking health hazard with a spatula, but I swear we’ll make it right.”
Brother. Not him.
Something in me loosens slightly at this information and the sound of his genuine apology—one I wasn’t expecting to receive, but I push the feeling away. It still doesn't solve my problem.
