Read Online Hot in Hellcat Canyon by Julie Anne Long - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Julie Anne Long
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peered in. He didn’t say a word for a moment.
“Since . . . 1972?” he hazarded. Sounding bemused, and as hushed as Indiana Jones entering a tomb.
The carpet was forest green shag, about four inches deep, or so it seemed, and it was everywhere. Like a living thing. It met them at the front door. She wouldn’t be surprised if the carpet one day made it all the way into the bathroom and escaped out into the woods to join the wild foliage outside.
She led him inside.
The house comprised two main rooms and two bedrooms. The main room was vast and open with soaring beamed ceilings, bisected only by the long oval Formica counter of the open kitchen. But the whole place was dark, because brown wood paneling covered every inch of the walls, and the single wall of windows was covered in blinds, and the blinds were covered in dust.
“I feel like I ought to be stalking an antelope.” He said it on a wondering hush, as he tread over the carpet. “I can’t hear my feet.”
“This kind of carpet keeps the place warm in winter,” she asserted, mindful that her goal was to get the property rented. “It does get cold up here in winter, and we even get snow on occasion, so if you intend to stay that long, it’ll cut down on your heating bills.”
“Ah, so that’s the purpose of shag carpet,” he said somberly, like an attentive pupil. “I always wondered.”
“And it might seem dark now, but wait until you see the view,” she gushed, though her voice was still a little shaky. “Those blinds . . . um . . . apparently we need to use a remote to open them. Let’s see . . . it must be around here somewhere . . .”
“It’s probably in the rug.” He was nudging at the carpet in an exploratory fashion with the toe of his boot, as if hoping to find treasures in it. Or worried something might be lurking.
In any other circumstance she might have found this hilarious.
But she was appalled she had to try to rent this place to John Tennessee McCord, of all people. His own home was probably so huge and spotless that every word and footstep echoed.
As she rummaged through the kitchen drawers for the remote he was watching her as avidly as if he’d bought a ticket to see her.
“Plenty of spatulas already here,” she said brightly, “so you don’t need to bring your own.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I hate when I burn my pancakes.”
He was both enjoying her show and taking the piss out of her.
“I bet there’s a deck of only about forty-three cards in there, too,” he added encouragingly. “And maybe one beater from a hand mixer, and one corn on the cob holder.”
Like he was prompting a comedian who’d forgotten her next line.
He wasn’t far wrong about the cards, but she didn’t tell him that.
She pulled open another drawer and found it empty. And then another drawer, and saw that sad, depleted deck of cards and a bottle opener. And then another drawer.
He finally turned away and tipped his head back and studied the walls. “Just think . . . someone must have said, ‘I know what will make this place even better—dark paneling everywhere.”
“It acts as an extra layer of insulation in the summer and winter.”
She had completely made that up.
He slowly lowered his head and studied her for a beat of silence.
“Does it?” He sounded almost intolerably amused and completely disbelieving.
She cleared her throat.
“Er, as you can see, um, J. T.,” she narrated like a spokesmodel, as if he hadn’t said anything at all, as she yanked another drawer open, “there’s plenty of storage for utensils and groceries and—AHA!”
She whipped out the remote for the blinds triumphantly.
She stabbed at it, and miraculously, the window blinds slid up.
He watched, seemingly fascinated. “How lazy do you have to be if you need a remote to . . .”
He couldn’t finish the sentence.
Because they were briefly paralyzed by the sunlight roaring through the windows.
“Christ,”
“Since . . . 1972?” he hazarded. Sounding bemused, and as hushed as Indiana Jones entering a tomb.
The carpet was forest green shag, about four inches deep, or so it seemed, and it was everywhere. Like a living thing. It met them at the front door. She wouldn’t be surprised if the carpet one day made it all the way into the bathroom and escaped out into the woods to join the wild foliage outside.
She led him inside.
The house comprised two main rooms and two bedrooms. The main room was vast and open with soaring beamed ceilings, bisected only by the long oval Formica counter of the open kitchen. But the whole place was dark, because brown wood paneling covered every inch of the walls, and the single wall of windows was covered in blinds, and the blinds were covered in dust.
“I feel like I ought to be stalking an antelope.” He said it on a wondering hush, as he tread over the carpet. “I can’t hear my feet.”
“This kind of carpet keeps the place warm in winter,” she asserted, mindful that her goal was to get the property rented. “It does get cold up here in winter, and we even get snow on occasion, so if you intend to stay that long, it’ll cut down on your heating bills.”
“Ah, so that’s the purpose of shag carpet,” he said somberly, like an attentive pupil. “I always wondered.”
“And it might seem dark now, but wait until you see the view,” she gushed, though her voice was still a little shaky. “Those blinds . . . um . . . apparently we need to use a remote to open them. Let’s see . . . it must be around here somewhere . . .”
“It’s probably in the rug.” He was nudging at the carpet in an exploratory fashion with the toe of his boot, as if hoping to find treasures in it. Or worried something might be lurking.
In any other circumstance she might have found this hilarious.
But she was appalled she had to try to rent this place to John Tennessee McCord, of all people. His own home was probably so huge and spotless that every word and footstep echoed.
As she rummaged through the kitchen drawers for the remote he was watching her as avidly as if he’d bought a ticket to see her.
“Plenty of spatulas already here,” she said brightly, “so you don’t need to bring your own.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I hate when I burn my pancakes.”
He was both enjoying her show and taking the piss out of her.
“I bet there’s a deck of only about forty-three cards in there, too,” he added encouragingly. “And maybe one beater from a hand mixer, and one corn on the cob holder.”
Like he was prompting a comedian who’d forgotten her next line.
He wasn’t far wrong about the cards, but she didn’t tell him that.
She pulled open another drawer and found it empty. And then another drawer, and saw that sad, depleted deck of cards and a bottle opener. And then another drawer.
He finally turned away and tipped his head back and studied the walls. “Just think . . . someone must have said, ‘I know what will make this place even better—dark paneling everywhere.”
“It acts as an extra layer of insulation in the summer and winter.”
She had completely made that up.
He slowly lowered his head and studied her for a beat of silence.
“Does it?” He sounded almost intolerably amused and completely disbelieving.
She cleared her throat.
“Er, as you can see, um, J. T.,” she narrated like a spokesmodel, as if he hadn’t said anything at all, as she yanked another drawer open, “there’s plenty of storage for utensils and groceries and—AHA!”
She whipped out the remote for the blinds triumphantly.
She stabbed at it, and miraculously, the window blinds slid up.
He watched, seemingly fascinated. “How lazy do you have to be if you need a remote to . . .”
He couldn’t finish the sentence.
Because they were briefly paralyzed by the sunlight roaring through the windows.
“Christ,”
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