I frowned at him. “There is someone for everyone. Somewhere out there, there’s a grumpy woman who is impossible to please, waiting for her knight in shining armor to sweep her off her feet.” I tapped my chin. “I better give Mr. Tom some days off so he can go find her.”

Austin shook with laughter. “You just described Niamh.” He started to sing, his voice smooth and incredibly pleasing. “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a dream…”

I widened my eyes. “Wow. You have a really good voice. Like…really good.”

His cheeks colored and he looked away, adorably embarrassed.

“Do you dance, too?” I asked, leaning forward and bracing my elbow on my knee before resting my chin on my fist.

“Maybe.”

“Oh my goodness, and the hot guy gets hotter.” I sat back and fanned my face. “What other tricks do you have up your sleeve?”

“I have a horrible temper.”

“Nah, no you don’t. A rage problem when something sets you off, sure, but you’re slow to anger. Do you play an instrument?”

“Guitar.”

I rolled my eyes. “A guitar? Jesus, Austin, you’re a cliché. What else? Fast car?”

“The Jeep isn’t very fast.”

“Yes, true. Strike against you.”

“The Bugatti isn’t so bad, though.”

“That’s a shame… Wait. A Bugatti?” I cocked my head. “Do you really have a Bugatti?”

He laughed and wiped his hand across his face. “I did. Left it behind. I came here on four paws. I got the Jeep here in town. I do miss going recklessly fast, though.”

“Damarion bought a Lexus when he was here,” I said. “He went recklessly fast. I didn’t love it.”

“First, recklessly fast in the right hands isn’t scary, it is exhilarating. I would make you squeal in delight. Second, do not mention that man’s name when it relates to you and dating or intimacy.”

I froze, my mouth open to speak, but a rush of excitement flooded my body, and the words drifted away. He’d said the first in a playful, teasing way. His tone had changed at the end, shifting into something rough and intense and possessive, as though the aforementioned rage was bubbling to the surface, beyond his control.

Something dangerous kindled within his stare, trapping me to my seat, holding me there. I could barely breathe as fire moved through my veins, coiling within me, aching down low. My heart raced as the memory of his touch, of his lips whispering across my skin.

Someone who didn’t belong walked into my woods.

I sat forward, responding to the trespasser. Or was I responding to Austin?

The heat in his eyes consumed me, made my thoughts hazy. Electricity crackled through the air around us. He pulled his feet down from the ottoman, slowly, purposefully, bracing them wide and leaning his elbows against his knees, a predatory look in his eyes.

My body would not move, caught in his stare, in his intense focus—nervous for reasons I didn’t understand, excited for the same reasons. A crease formed between his brows, as though he was wrestling with his thoughts.

The stranger on the property came into sharper focus. The timing was terrible. I didn’t want this moment interrupted.

I needed this moment interrupted.

Thirteen

“Miss!” Mr. Tom pushed open the door. “Miss. Your parents are farting around the garden. Your dad found a used wine barrel on the side of the road with a ‘free’ sign and, after rolling it all the way home, is now trying to decorate the garden with it.”

“Not now, Mr. Tom,” I said, needing the lifeline he was offering but not wanting to take it. The fresh air would surely clear my head, but sitting in these close quarters with Austin, I wanted nothing more than to lock us in and throw away the key.

“Yes, miss, I can see you’re winning a stare-off with Austin Steele, and let me tell you, that is an outstanding accomplishment, but I cannot get them to go back inside, and the basajaun is making haste toward the garden. His disguises aren’t good. You need to get your parents into the house before he shows up, or your magical cover will surely be blown.”

The crease between Austin’s brows deepened. His eyes flicked toward Mr. Tom, as though he was just now starting to comprehend the words.

“You might need to slap me, Mr. Tom. My mind is rolling down the gutter,” I said.

“Of course, miss—”

“If you lift a hand to her, Earl,” Austin growled, “I will rip it off and beat you with it.”

“Ah. You do make a compelling argument, Mr. Steele.”

I shook myself out of my stupor, feeling a strange mix of regret and gratitude, wishing the moment could go on forever, and also that Mr. Tom had interrupted us ten minutes sooner.

The basajaun was moving fast, loping through the wood, straight for the backyard. If he got there and ate all of Edgar’s flowers, I’d never hear the end of it. That outcome would be so much worse than my parents seeing Bigfoot.

“When it rains, it pours.” I hurried out of the house and to the back door, finding my parents doing exactly what Mr. Tom had described, positioning an old, multicolored, stained, and badly weathered wine barrel next to the gorgeous cherry tree getting ready to bloom. The contrast of ugly and beautiful had never been so stark. Niamh stood off to the side, watching, looking bemused.

“What’s… What’d you find?” I asked, out of breath from my run and the situation I’d left behind in my private sitting room. I put my hands on my hips, trying to play it cool while monitoring the basajaun’s progress through the trees.

“Your father found another free thing,” my mom said, wrestling herself up under the tree. “He just can’t leave them alone.”

“Why would someone throw this away?” My dad hiked up his retreating pants, the belt not quite doing the trick. “Look at it. It’s perfectly good. You’d have to pay fifty or a hundred dollars for this in a store.”

“It’s super weathered, dad,” I said. “It’s been sitting in someone else’s yard, clearly, and they’ve realized it has outlived its glory days. It’s a wreck.”

“Well, if that isn’t a commentary on this house, I don’t know what is,” Niamh murmured.

“Nah, it’ll be fine.” My dad tried to wipe away a dark stain that did not plan on going anywhere. “You can just sand it down, stain it, and there you go. It’ll look really good. Too bad we didn’t bring the truck, or I would take it home. Maybe if we go look around in the streets, we can find another one.”

The basajaun was a hundred yards out. Time to make a move.

“Right. Fine.” I motioned them toward the house. “Mom, Mr. Tom needs a little help with dinner. He doesn’t know if he can handle cooking for this many people.” Mr. Tom’s lips tightened, but he didn’t comment.

“Oh yes, of course,” my mom said, lighting up. “I thought we could have Cornish game hens tonight. What do you think, Sir Tom?”

“Mr. Tom, madam, and that would be fine.”

“Well, with the cape ’n’ all, I thought maybe you’d like sir over mister. It really elevates the name, don’t you think?” She led him to the back door. “There is always Monsieur Tom. Now that would be snazzy, wouldn’t it?”

“Dad…what about those rats? Did you attack that problem?” I asked, bouncing from foot to foot, the basajaun really close now. He clearly had something on his mind. I hoped to hell it wasn’t violence. I didn’t want to fight a being that could literally spike a human’s head.

“Huh?” Dad looked away from the nearly-gray-it-was-so-weather-beaten wine barrel. “Oh, I set some traps. I found some in your shed. Don’t you worry, we’ll get that taken care of. By the way, what’s with moving that Chucky-looking doll into the TV room? Your mother said she didn’t do it. Your dolls are nice and all, but some of them…aren’t to my taste.”

I gritted my teeth and ran my hands through my hair. Ivy House was clearly messing with my parents. Was there a way to put a house on time-out?

“It’s probably Ulric’s idea of a joke,” I said, glancing back toward the trees. Austin was already walking that way, his stride long and powerful and graceful, muscles playing across his back with the swing of his large shoulders. Butterflies filled my stomach, and I turned away. He’d at least head off the basajaun, hopefully leaving it in the trees.

Unless the basajaun had come for violence. Then there’d be a Bigfoot and a polar bear battling in the garden. When it rained, it poured, indeed.

“Here, Pete, I could use a beer, whaddya say?” Niamh said, motioning him toward the house. “When Edgar gets through with what he’s doing, we’ll get him sanding that barrel down. He’s got the equipment somewhere, I think. Ye didn’t finish telling me about yer ancestors and all the places they lived in Ireland…” She gave me a long-suffering look. She was taking one for the team on this one. My dad loved to go on and on about his family roots.

“Oh yeah, that’s right.” He turned away from the barrel. The basajaun slowed as he neared the tree line, not quite visible yet, but not far off. “Well…” He looked at the sky. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

“That’s here. It’s five o’clock here!” She motioned him in again. “Near enough, anyway. Close enough that it doesn’t matter.”

The basajaun stepped through the trees, a bright red baseball cap perched backward on his much-too-large head, an orange construction vest barely clinging to his enormous shoulders, and a pair of cut-off sweats practically glued to his lower half. Everywhere else—hair. Dense hair covered his chest, partially obscured by his long and braided beard. It flowed over his head and down the side of his hairy face, his nose so prominent it was all one could look at. The hair draped down his arms and legs and puffed up on top of his bare feet.