With a derisive snort, she replied, "No shit, Sherlock."
I felt my eyebrows furrow. "So…?"
"So grab the clippings already." She gave a frantic wave of her arms. "Scatter them around, like an animal got into them or something."
I was staring now. "An animal?"
"Yeah. Like a goat." She sighed. "I mean, they eat grass all the time, right?"
"I, uh…" I shook my head. "Not around here, they don't."
"I don't care," she said. "Landon Tarrington will be here any minute, and I need this place to look like shit."
I stared with growing confusion. "What?"
"Yeah." Her mouth tightened. "The shittier the better."
I frowned. Gee, maybe I should've crapped on the front porch.
I gave Roy another questioning look. "Landon Tarrington?" I said. "Who's that?"
"The executive producer." Roy flicked his head toward the blonde. "Her boss."
The blonde gave a loud huff. "He's not my boss. He's my boss's boss." She turned back to me. "Now get your ass in gear. Or else."
I felt my gaze narrow. "You're not my boss. Or my boss's boss for that matter." With a brittle smile, I informed her, "For your information, I have no boss."
Her lips twisted. "So you're unemployed? I can't say I'm surprised."
And I couldn’t say that I wouldn't smack her with a shovel. But that was a fantasy for another time.
In the end, I told her to shove it. If she wanted the grass clippings scattered or whatever, she could damn well do it herself.
And boy, was she delighted to hear that.
She was just in the process expressing this delight when a big black pickup pulled into the driveway.
At the sight of it, we all turned to look. The sun had shifted during the last hour, and the driveway was now shaded by the thick branches of my grandparent's favorite oak tree.
With no glare on the truck windows, I had no trouble seeing exactly who was behind the wheel.
It was Brody Blastoviak – the asshat himself.
Chapter 12
Brody
I frowned as I cut the truck's engine. Shit. What was she doing here?
This time, I didn't mean Arden – although I wasn't happy to see her either.
Hell, I wasn't happy to see any of it.
Waverly was standing on the front walkway while Roy – the head of the traveling film crew – stood beside Arden on the property's front lawn.
The lawn. I shook my head. Huh.
Someone had cut it. Or at least they'd cut most of it.
It was easy to guess who that someone was.
It was Arden. Her red sneakers were stained green, and there was a streak of dirt along the side of the face. Her hair was tied in a loose ponytail, and her yellow T-shirt clung to her curves in a way that might've caught my attention if I weren't so distracted by the rest of it.
The house – it looked different. I glanced toward the front porch and did a double-take.
Someone had trimmed the hedges. They'd done a decent job of it, too.
Arden?
It had to be.
This explained Waverly's scowl. Oh yeah. She was ticked.
Still, she wiped the scowl from her face and flashed me a smile as she turned and began striding toward my truck.
As she moved closer, I looked to Arden.
She wasn't smiling.
And neither was I.
Memories of last night came flooding back, making me shift uneasily in my seat. Judging from the scene in front of me, I'd lost any chance to explain before Arden figured things out on her own.
I was too late.
My fault. Not hers.
But then again, I hadn't been expecting company, not until tomorrow.
By the time I climbed out of the driver's seat, Waverly was standing beside my truck. When I shut the truck door behind me, she leaned closer and breathed, "Oh, my God. I'm so glad you're here."
Yeah, well, that made one of us.
Again, I looked to Arden. She wasn't glad. And I didn't blame her.
I wasn't glad either.
Last night had been a real shit-show. But there was plenty of blame to go around. And hell if I'd be taking all of it.
Waverly said, "So you received my messages?"
I gave her a look. "Yeah, all twelve of them."
Her chin lifted. "It wasn't twelve. It was ten at the most."
Ten, twelve – it didn't matter. When I said nothing in reply, she asked, "So why didn't you text me back?"
"Because I was busy."
Her mouth tightened, but she didn't push the issue. Instead, she pointed toward the front yard and said, "But you see the problem, right?"
Oh yeah. I saw.
Turns out the "landscaping emergency" was right here in Bayside. It was easy to see what had happened. Arden had ruined the establishing footage, the part where we showed just how bad the house looked before we got to work.
Silently, I took in the scene. The house still looked bad, but not as bad as when I'd bought it.
In fact, the place looked a lot better than just this morning.
The hedges looked nice and neat, and a bunch of weeds were missing from the area around the front porch. The yard still had a long way to go, but Arden had made a decent start of it, especially for someone working alone – and for less than a day.
If Arden were anyone else, I might've been impressed.
Next to me, Waverly was saying, "See? It's a total fucking disaster."
I shrugged. "Hey, it could be worse."
"How?" she demanded. "It's a catastrophe, and you know it."
No. A catastrophe was when your dad went out for beer and never came back. Or, when your mom decided she'd rather take up with some washed-up fighter and move to Miami, instead of raising her own kids.
Now that was a catastrophe – as I'd seen firsthand, even more so when they'd died in separate accidents not too long afterward.
I told Waverly, "Trust me. It's not that bad."
"Not that bad?" she sputtered. "You're kidding, right?"
I'd known Waverly for only a few weeks
