Page 85 of Delicious Surrender
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Brynne’s head was pounding. It sounded like someone was hammering nails right next to her. She opened one eyelid and quickly closed it when sunlight pierced her eyeball. It wasn’t her imagination; someone was banging somewhere. On her door. Who the hell would be here this early?
She squinted at her mobile phone and saw the screen said 9:10 a.m. “Oh god,” she groaned. “Why did he have to be all that,andpunctual?!”
She got up from the couch and felt woozy. Ouch. Polishing off half a bottle of wine with her dinner, followed by a tumbler of sweet liqueur, was a bad idea. She pulled her robe tightly closed over her nightie. One look in the mirror, and she wanted to cry. No time to fix the hot mess staring back at her.
He was almost to his truck when she yanked open the back door and called out. “Logan, please wait! I’m so sorry I didn’thear the door.”
He turned back, annoyance written all over his face. He slowly took in her appearance, and his eyes went from cold to amused. His mouth twitched. “You look like you were in a fight, princess.”
She nodded and rubbed her forehead. “In a manner of speaking, I was. The Glayva won.”
He chuckled. “Ooch no, that stuff is lethal. It’ll put you into a sugar coma.” He reached the steps as Brynne backed away and tried to wipe the caked mascara from under her eyes.
She stood back as he examined the floor and the pipes connected to the washing machine, taking notes in a little book as he went.
“Either the machine has been leaking for a while, or there’s a problem behind this wall. I won’t know until I rip up the floor and get into the crawl space.”
“My aunt did this addition about twelve years ago, and I think she replaced the washer around then. I can’t be sure.”
“I’m no appliance expert, but repairing it will probably cost more than a new one.”
“And what about the floor?” She braced herself for the answer.
He got down on the floor with his flashlight to check the space beneath the boards.
“I’ll need to replace this entire section to ensure you don’t get mold.”
She laid on the puppy dog eyes and wrung her hands nervously. “I’ve just moved here and don’t have a lot of savings. How much will this all cost?”
“With labor and materials, it will be around 850 pounds. It will take about a week, provided there are no surprises.”
Brynne chewed her bottom lip and sighed. “Okay. It’s got to be done. I pray critters don’t come climbing up through that hole in the floor.” She shivered just thinking about the spiders and other vermin under there.
“From what I can see, they sealed the crawl space well. I can put a sheet of plywood down in the meantime because I can’t start until next week.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
“Okay, I’ll come by tomorrow. What time will you be up tomorrow, princess?”
She blushed. “I have to work late tonight, so could we say after twelve noon?”
“Sure. I’ll see you then.” He winked and added, “I like your Scottie dog PJs.”
Uh oh, flirting.“Thanks,” she said. “And thanks for not taking off.”
“Of course. Declan said you’re a good friend. Besides, I would never leave a beautiful damsel in distress.”
Once he was gone, she went to the front room and surveyed the mess. Gross. She scraped the plates and filled the sink to soak the crusty dishes. She got coffee on and put some raisin bread in the toaster. Her stomach wouldn’t handle much else.
Josie’s agent emailed to confirm that they would release the death announcement to the public today. It would be in the newspaper, online, and on Twitter and Facebook. Josie wrote under the pen name Joyce McLennan, and from the very beginning, she guarded her privacy tightly. Her stories were very risqué for their time. Using a pseudonym protected her from overzealous admirers and adoring fans alike. In the small community of Portree, a simple obituary ran in the local newspaper a week ago. Her dear friends knew her secret identity, and everyone in town protected her when fans came snooping around.
Brynne decided she needed a pen name for herself. It would free her to write the wildest material imaginable, without fear of judgment. Josie used to tell her that publishing a book was like walking down the street naked. It took guts to reveal what your imagination conjured up. It was more important than ever to create a new identity since her name had been dragged through the mud.
She arrived ahead of her shift to find Myrna tidying up. They went over the dinner specials, and she introduced her to the bartender and other servers.
By nine thirty, the place was packed. This would be like her university days—fast, loud, and exhausting.