Know Your Heart: A New Zealand Enemies to Lovers Romance (Far North Series Book 2) (3 page)

“It’s going good,” Glen said. “You were right about this place—it’s just what I need to finally quit pissing around and finish it.”

“Twelve years is a long time to be working on the same book.”

“Preaching to the choir, Fraser.”

His gut tightened. Twelve years of squeezing in stolen hours, chiseling away at the story begging to be told, even though the bastard critic clinging to his back kept whispering that it wouldn’t be good enough. That Glen should just quit this stupid daydream like his father suggested and accept that remaining a lawyer was the sensible choice. Glen stopped and started, rewrote and trashed, even hovered his mouse over the files to delete the whole damn thing once not long after Tina had moved out.

Luckily, his muse, which he liked to picture as a Navy SEAL crossed with a ninja but twice as badass, stomped on the bastard critic’s tiny balls and refused to let Glen do it. And when a few months after his thirtieth birthday Grace sent him a link to a reputable New York literary agent’s first three chapters competition, he’d ignored the bastard critic’s eye-rolls and e-mailed off his entry.

Weeks later, the literary agent’s assistant informed him
The Last Warlock’s Blade
had won the competition. A 4:00 a.m. phone call that had nearly stopped his heart. The five-hundred buck prize money didn’t mean squat, but the agent requesting the rest of his manuscript for consideration? Priceless. Or it would be, assuming he could get the book finished in these next five weeks.

This was his big chance. Like hell would he blow it.

“You’ll make the agent’s deadline?”

“I’d better, or Darth Vader and my brother will never let me hear the end of it.”

“Force be with you, mate.” Nate held out his bottle.

Glen clinked his against it then leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the counter. Time to set the record straight. “I understand this is a shitty position you’re in, but I’m not changing my mind.”

With a huff, Nate sipped his beer. When he set it down, his gaze fixed steadily on Glen. “Aside from the brain-numbing boredom of staring at the same four walls of your townhouse, why is going back to Auckland such a big deal?”

“Do you know how many phone calls I’ve had to take since I arrived last Saturday?”

Nate shook his head.

“None,” said Glen. “Thanks to the God-awful cell phone coverage up here. I can pick and choose whose voicemail to answer. And how many times has someone turned up on my doorstep to bug me?”

“Other than Todd and I scrounging a beer?”

“Yep.”

“I’m guessing zero. Until this afternoon, that is.”

“Precisely. I signed a contract to stay here for six weeks, and once day forty-two arrives, I’ll be gone. Then the diva can have her house back. Until then? Nope. It’s the principle of the thing.”

Frown lines formed on Nate’s brow, but he didn’t argue, just sipped his beer.

Glen hadn’t told Nate everything. Yeah, a tiny part of Glen liked saying no to Savannah. But he had other reasons for staying in Bounty Bay for the next six weeks. Reason’s he didn’t feel right about sharing.

Nate took another swallow of beer and put down his half empty bottle. “She’s going through some tough times at the moment.”

Glen dragged a bowl of pistachios across the counter. Selected one and pried his thumb nail between the shells. Tough to open. Tough times. Savannah wasn’t the only one whose life had turned upside down. So had his sister-in-law’s. She’d packed up her three boys and left his brother a week before he’d accepted Nate’s offer to come north. That’d been a shocker—opening his door one evening to Erin’s tears and her confession she had nowhere else to stay.

“Media is all over her, are they?” Glen said. “Kinda goes with the territory of being a big fish in the tiny New Zealand pond.”

“I think it’s more than that.”

Yeah, and he thought it was more than just Erin growing sick of his brother leaving the toilet seat up one too many times. But although he’d willingly put a roof over her head, the idea of sharing his apartment with Erin and Jamie’s fifteen-year-old, eleven-year-old, and newly minted, rowdy four-year-old while trying to write was as appealing as a punctured eardrum.

“You always did worry about Savannah as if she’s made of blown glass. Your cousin’s got a spine of stainless steel.”

He got a speculative glance from Nate over that comment, the tension wiring through his friend’s jaw a good indication Glen was approaching mine-laden territory.

He gentled his voice. “Whatever happened between you and her and the whole Liam-gate saga is none of my business, but it didn’t crumple that steel in her. She’ll cope.”

“Sav’s no one’s victim. But at the moment, she’s…vulnerable. Go easy on her.”

A sharp twinge in his gut made Glen stand up and stretch. Nate had never shared the details of what happened in an Auckland bar last year, but Glen had his suspicions. Hell, he would’ve done the exact same thing if someone had laid a hand on his sister. Didn’t mean he’d give Savannah what she wanted just because she batted her pretty green eyes.

“As I said in the beginning, you’re in a sucky position, and I don’t envy you telling your cousin she’s not getting her way, but I’m staying. The only good thing about practicing law is knowing when I’m on the right side of it.”

Nate grunted and finished his beer. He slid the empty bottle over the counter, so Glen could reach it. “In that case, mate, you’d better give me another beer before I go back. She’s going to be upset.”

Glen shrugged and turned to the fridge, remembering the sexy twitch of her bottom as she stalked away from his deck this afternoon, dripping wet and mad as a cat tossed into a shower. Yep, his friend had earned his second beer, because unknown to Nate, Glen had first-hand knowledge of Savannah Payne’s reaction when she didn’t get what she wanted.

Chapter 2

Savannah had taken the news of Glen’s stubborn refusal to move quite well, all things considered. She hadn’t killed the messenger, and she hadn’t gone back to her property to give the jerk a piece of her mind. She’d nodded and said, “All right. I’ll think of something else.”

She’d slept in five-year-old Drew’s bed for the night and had driven down to Bounty Bay the next morning. Nate’s soon-to-be sister-in-law, Kathy, had given Sav the phone numbers of a few of Kathy’s relatives who might be willing to rent a fishing cabin along the coast. Then Sav had driven past the perfect solution and no longer needed to worry.

Perfect solution sorted, she was hittin’ the road back to her hideaway house in the hills.

With a quick glance in the rear view mirror, Sav turned into her driveway. Squeaks and groans made her teeth lock together, but another mirror glance reassured her she was okay. The worst was nearly over, and in a few minutes, plan
Remove the Stuck-Up Lawyer
would be put into action.

Expecting the man in question to come storming out onto the deck, she practiced her widest smile as her house came into view. Since the sun decided to shine this afternoon, he’d get a good view of her crimson lipstick-ed grin and cheery wave as she parked. Her smile slipped a notch. The upcoming parking bit caused her shoulder muscles to knot together. She swiped a sweaty palm down her red capri pants, which looked adorable with her cherry-red and white striped gumboots. She’d been wise enough to choose sensible footwear for Phase 1 of her plan.

Unfortunately, as she turned in to park beside his SUV, Glen wasn’t on-board with the plan. Rock music blared out of the open slider doors—the kind with screeching guitars and rhythm usually accompanied by long-haired dudes bobbing their heads like their necks were on springs.

Sav leaned forward and peered into her wing mirror.

Okay. I can do this
. One perfectly executed maneuver, coming right up. She slotted the shifter into reverse and gave it a little gas, turning the wheel to the left. More creaks and groans. She jabbed her foot on the brake then coasted forward to try again. Probably just as well Glen wasn’t witnessing her first attempt. Second attempt, she hauled the wheel in the opposite direction and eureka! Success.

She flicked a glance at the opposite wing mirror as the car trundled slowly backward. Her mouth flew open a second before her gumboot slammed down on the brake. The car shuddered, a cacophony of creaks, groans and metallic squeaks erupting behind her.

Glen stood fists-on-hips in the center of the grassy area, only a few feet away from where she’d nearly backed over him. She buzzed down the window, her stomach looping into little knots as all six-foot-something of scowling male got bigger and bigger in her wing mirror.

He stopped by her open window, giving her an up-close and personal view of his leather belt and low-slung blue jeans, before he wrenched open her door.

Blue eyes flashing fire, Glen jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and growled, “What in God’s name is that?”

Savannah hauled on the parking brake and unclipped her safety belt.

“That,” she said, shoving one palm against his broad chest to push him out the way. “Is Daisy.”

The warm, hard muscle underneath the thin cotton of his tee shirt had her jerking her hand back. She covered the reaction by tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

He didn’t move, continuing to glower. “Daisy? You named a butt-ugly orange caravan
Daisy
?”

“No, the guy I bought her from named her Daisy. And don’t be rude; she’s a classic piece of Kiwi history.”

Glen’s jaw clenched hard enough to crack walnuts. She’d bet ten bucks that if the rock music wasn’t so damn loud, she’d hear his molars grinding.

She swung her rubber-booted feet out of the car, but he still hadn’t moved. Meaning she was almost nose-to-nipple with him. It was quite a nice nipple, too, outlined under his tee shirt like it was, but if the man didn’t back up in the next thirty seconds, she would pincer it as if her fingers were long-nosed pliers and
twist
.

“Would you mind, terribly much, to move out of the way?”

His nostrils flared once and he stepped aside.

“Thank you,” she said, extra sweetly, and climbed out.

He stalked back to the house, disappearing through the front door. Moments later, the rock music cut off, and he returned, his brow smooth and his lips relaxed into a neutral line. Lawyer face on, she surmised. Well, he was playing with the big league when it came to masking emotions.

“What are you planning to do with that caravan?”

He could’ve been asking about the weather, except for a tell-tale twitch under his right eye.

She pointed to the large clearing of flat grass at the back of the house, surrounded by native bush that almost—but not quite—hid the old barn from the main house. “See that spot over there by the big old gum tree? Or do you need your glasses?”

“I only use the glasses for work. I can see the spot just fine.”

“Good. Because that’s where Daisy and I will be staying for the next five weeks.”

The air crackled between them. If she touched one of his arms, now folded across his chest, would she get a zap the way she sometimes did touching the car door?

But instead of zapping her, he tilted his head. “I don’t think so.”

Sav ran her tongue around her top teeth to check none of her Saucy Red lipstick stained them, then pulled her lips back in a wide smile. “You misunderstand me. I’m not asking your permission; I’m telling you what’s going to happen. You rented my house, but I own the thirty acres surrounding it. And since Daisy will be parked beyond the required distance of ten feet from the house, I’m not breaking any laws.”

His eye twitched again.

“You really think you’ll last five weeks in that tin can?” His voice was frostier than a yummy watermelon Margarita. The man had icy control now he’d gotten over his initial surprise, that was for sure.

“Daisy’s got everything I need to be comfortable.”

“Why are you doing this? Are you really that desperate to get your own way?”

Her spine stiffened. “Let’s get one thing straight; just because you’re buddies with Nate, doesn’t mean you know me. So go ahead and judge—suits like you always do.”

“Suits like me?” His lip curled in one corner.

“Wearing jeans, stubble, and trendy spectacles doesn’t make you a laid-back bohemian writer”—but she had to admit the jeans and stubble and even the damn glasses did make him a little bit smoking hot—“because you can’t help but show a typical Suit’s narrow-minded arrogance every time you speak.”

One eyebrow lifted above his cool-blue eye. She hadn’t meant to go on the offensive. Just something about his smug, hipshot stance made her control slip.

He didn’t appear offended at her outburst. In fact, he showed her a row of straight, white teeth. Some would call it a smile. She knew better—it was a challenge.

“Three weeks, diva,” he said. “Three weeks before you cave without your hairdryer, wi-fi and bubble baths.”

Tiny hairs rose erect on her nape at the sarcastic nickname. Her father used to call her his little diva or his little star. Up until that night ten years ago when she’d sobbed down the phone line to London, ordering him to never, ever call her that again.

“You surprise me. I thought you’d only give me a week.”

“I don’t underestimate your pig-headed determination. You didn’t get where you are in your career by being a quitter, but even stubbornness has its limit. Enjoy your cramped quarters.” He walked backward a few steps then paused. “The house is off-limits to you, by the way—and that includes my front deck for cell phone coverage. If you want to make a call, I suggest you climb a tree.”

Savannah turned away before she gave in to the temptation to hurl something at his retreating back. She returned to her car and started it. She’d show him. Ramming into reverse, she checked her mirrors and continued to ease Daisy into position. The twenty-foot caravan bumped gently over the grass and settled on its four tires once she’d coaxed it into the right spot. Trees and greenery were on the caravan’s rear side, the front door almost directly opposite her house’s office on the other. Perfect. She resisted a fist pump as she killed the engine and climbed out, sneaking a glance at the deck.

Glen slouched in an Adirondack chair, positioned to face her. As if he was waiting for a show. Beer in one hand—and what was that between his long, hard thighs? Crinkling noises drifted across to her, followed by loud crunches. Her eyes narrowed. Saliva pooled. More crunches and the hiss-pop of a bottle being opened.
Beer and potato chips
. The cruel pig. Now that was all she could think about.

Tipping her nose in the air, she walked behind Daisy and got to work winding down the first jack, remembering the salesman’s step-by-step demonstration of setting up the caravan.

“We’ve got this, Daisy old girl,” she said, after successfully deploying three of the four jacks. “And we’ll hope that every last one of those chips goes straight to his behind.”

Though so far, they obviously hadn’t. For a pencil-pushing suit, he was in pretty good shape.

She squished through churned up grass and mud to the fourth jack, positioned on the far corner facing Glen. Her neck heated, aware of his scrutiny from across the lawn. One more jack to go. Something tickled in the corner of her mind but was blown away by a deep voice calling out, “Having fun yet?”

Ignoring him, Sav grabbed the final jack and turned the handle. It didn’t budge. She planted her gumboots farther apart and tried again. Nothing.

“You’ve got no leverage at that angle. Try kneeling.”

Sav looked at the mud bubbling up between blades of grass. Then at her spotless capris. Thought she’d squirm at the idea of getting dirty, did he? She turned and flashed him a ninety-watt smile. “Thanks. I
so
wouldn’t have thought of that.”

She dropped to her knees, cool wetness soaking through the thin fabric. A point was made when she didn’t glance at the stains forming. Glaring at the jack the way she’d glare at a particularly tricky line of dialogue her tongue kept stumbling over, Sav bore down. With a horrendous creak, it gave way, and she wound it down triumphantly, sliding a short length of timber under the jack so it wouldn’t sink into the mud—again following the salesman’s instructions.

“Good job,” Glen called out, followed by more crinkly chip-packet sounds.

“Kiss my ass,” she muttered under her breath, hoping he’d choke. But she turned and gave him a cheery thumbs-up.

Sav got to her feet and strolled to the car, definitely
not
looking at the wetness spread from knee to ankle and seeping under her gumboots. First thing she’d do after parking her car was to try out the shower in Daisy’s dinky little bathroom.

She climbed in and started the engine. Glen might get his kicks from watching her grovel in the mud, but she’d have the last laugh by setting up her caravan without
some poor sap
doing it for her. She gave the car some gas and let it pull forward.

The car juddered, and Sav’s gaze shot automatically to the rear view mirror. Daisy bumped right along behind—she’d forgotten to unhitch the caravan from the tow-hitch
before
driving away!

Swearing in a very un-lady like fashion, she slammed on the brake.
Again
. Daisy bucked and rocked and screeched. Even before Sav got the car in park, gusts of laughter from her impromptu audience drifted across from the deck. A fever-hot flush stung her cheeks, and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She blinked furiously. Savannah Payne did not cry—not unless someone bankrolled her to do so.

Sav flung open the car door, narrowly missing Glen’s leg. He ducked out of the way then leaned down, eyes still crinkled with humor. At least he’d finished laughing his butt off at her expense.

“Need a hand?”

Not unless he chopped it off and let her use it to slap his face. But she hadn’t been nominated for a Golden Globe for nothing. Her lips strained in the corners from smiling so brightly.

“Nope.” She climbed out of the car and brushed sweaty palms down her legs. “My bad. I should’ve written down the instructions.”

Stalking to the end of the car, she let out a strangled groan at the deep grooves churned through grass and mud caused by the dragging jacks. A throat cleared at her side, and the faint odor of beer and stronger scent of male drifted into her nose.

“You sure I can’t do anything?” Glen said.

If she hadn’t been around the block more than a few damn times, she might’ve believed there was a hint of concern in his deep voice.

She met his steady gaze. “You could get out of my house.”

He raised his hands and took a few steps back. “Knock yourself out then, diva.”

This time her tongue didn’t receive her brain’s
stay polite
message. “Bite me.”

She didn’t glance at him as he gave one last chuckle and returned to his chair. She’d worked in front of tougher audiences, faced tougher critics than Glen Cooper. If he wanted to watch, she’d give him a show.