Page 197 of Positively Pricked

About leaving, she didn't have to askmetwice. The sooner we finished, the better.

Ten minutes later, we rolled through the gate without a hitch. When we reached the house, I pulled the car straight into the attached garage, cut the engine, and shut the garage door behind us.

The door was barely down before Kayla scrambled out of the car and into the house. Over her shoulder, she called, "I'm gonna check upstairs first, okay?"

I didn't want to be nosy. This was, after all, her stuff. But Ididfeel a certain responsibility for anything that might go wrong, so I scrambled after her, feeling more like a security guard than any kind of helper.

But if she minded, she didn't show it. Silently, I trailed behind her as she wandered from room to room, first upstairs, and then back to the main floor, where she took a quick look around and even opened a few boxes for good measure.

When we reached the final room – a small den near the front of the house – she said, "Well, it looks like it's all here."

"See?" I said, feeling the first hint of relief. "You didn't have anything to worry about."

She gave me an apologetic smile. "Sorry if I was kind of bitchy." She looked heavenward and said. "But Zane issucha prick."

And there it wasagain. That twinge of annoyance.

Damn it.

I made a noncommittal shrug, but said nothing in reply.

But Kayla was on a roll. She leaned against a Victorian roll-top desk and said, "Do you know, he's been giving me grief right from the start? God, Ihatethat guy."

This posed a troubling question. DidIhate him? No. Definitely not. In truth, I felt quite the opposite.

Thiswasn'tgood.

Across from me, Kayla was saying, "And don't get me started on the furniture."

I looked around.That's right. The furniture.The reminder was the perfect cold splash for the annoyingly warm feelings that kept creeping into my heart.

How could I keep forgetting? Zane hadn't only kicked them out. He'd kept their furniture, too.

Kayla gave an epic eye-roll. "You should've seen him on the night we moved. He was all like, 'Put it back. It's not yours.' And I was like, 'Fuck you, asshole.'"

I blinked. "Wait, what?"

She gave me a look. "What, you never heard the word 'asshole' before?"

"Uh…"

"Or was it the 'fuck' that bothered you?"

I gave a confused shake of my head. "It wasn't either one. I'm just trying to understand. If the furniture's not yours, whose is it?"

"Itisours." She glanced away. "Or, at least, it should've been."

"You mean yours and your dad's?"

She frowned. "What does my dad have to do with this?"

I froze.Oh, crap.

Still, hoping for the best, I said, "Because… he lived here, too?"

She gave me a look. "No, he didn't."

Uh-oh.This wasn't what I wanted to hear. Still, I summoned up a hopeful smile. "But wearetalking about Bob, right?"

"Bob?" She laughed like I'd just said something funny. "He's not my dad."

"He's not?"

"No." Her laugh turned into a giggle. "But hedoeslike it when I call him Daddy."