Calamity Jena (Invertary Book 4) (4 page)

“Muma says you’re stuck in here. Why don’t you go under the door?”

Jena hugged her close. “I’m a little bigger than you, honey. I can’t fit under the door. But I’m not stuck. I’m hiding.”

The little girl frowned. “This isn’t a very good spot, Aunty Jena, I found you really fast.”

“Good point.” Jena snuggled her. “Where’s your mum?”

“Right here, you dingbat. What crazy mess are you mixed up in now?”

At the sound of her friend Abby’s voice, Jena felt her eyes tear up. Stupid. She blinked them away. She was so grateful for her neighbour. They’d hit it off the minute Jena had arrived in town. Abby was the sister Jena had always wanted.

“If you lock the main door, I’ll come out and tell you,” Jena said.

“Already done.”

Jena put Katy on her feet and unlocked the door. Katy held her hand tightly.

“Look, muma, I found her.”

Abby’s face melted as she smiled at her daughter. “Yes, you did. You’re super clever. Now let’s go next door and eat.” She held up a large bag and shook it at Jena. “Figured you’d be hungry by now.”

“You’re a saint.” Jena hugged her friend.

“Yeah, so I hear. Come on, let’s go have a picnic in the waiting area.”

“Picnic!” Katy rushed off into the other room.

The women followed, although with a lot less enthusiasm. Abby reached into her bag and produced a red tartan shawl. She spread it flat on the floor before emptying the contents of the bag onto it. It mainly contained pies and cakes from Morag’s bakery.

Abby winced as she looked at the spread. “We’ll have to live on vegetables for the rest of the week to make up for the lack of vitamins in this meal.”

Jena grinned at her before reaching for a meat pie and a can of Pepsi. She plonked into one of the old armchairs and sighed with contentment. Food made all things better. Just like Taylor.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Abby made sitting in a church restroom look elegant.

Her friend’s ability to ooze class and refinement no matter the situation made Jena smile. She cast a glance at Katy to make sure she was occupied before she spoke. Katy had emptied her Minnie Mouse handbag of soft toys. The Disney characters were arranged in a semicircle and were “eating” some of Morag’s cake. With a deep breath, Jena turned to her friend.

“Frank is in town and he brought a couple of the Rizzoni boys with him.”

Abby stopped eating, the pie halfway to her mouth. “You need to stay with us until he leaves.”

Jena’s heart melted. She reached over and gave Abby’s hand a squeeze. “I can’t, honey. You have the kiddo to think about. It’s best if I keep away from you two. It’s safer.”

“I don’t like this. Not one bit. You don’t owe that guy anything.”

“I did sell everything he owns and ran with the money,” Jena pointed out.

Abby’s eyes lit with fire. “You spent years helping to fund every cockamamie scheme that man came up with. You bailed him out of trouble time and again. He owes you.”

Jena actually managed a laugh. She grabbed her friend’s hand. “See? This is why I love you.”

Abby squeezed her back. “I don’t understand why he’s here. Surely he’s figured out by now that you’ve spent the money. He can’t think you’re going to return with him. That’s insane.”

“Frank isn’t known for his sharp mind. I should probably talk to him and find out what he wants, but I don’t like arguments. I have a tendency to cave when people shout at me. I think I’d rather stay here in the toilet until he goes back to the States. I mean, he can’t hang out in Scotland forever.”

Abby’s lips pursed and her eyes hardened with determination. “You can’t stay here. You’ll be all alone in a big building. There are too many ways to get into this place. It’s easy access. It isn’t safe.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” a deep voice said from the window.

The women’s heads snapped in the direction of the words. Jena’s heart calmed slightly when she found Matt staring in at her. As they watched, the local cop pulled himself up and effortlessly climbed into the room. Jena felt a little bit of drool escape at the sight of all that flexing muscle. She wiped her lip and hoped no one noticed.

“Matty!” Katy launched herself at the cop, wrapping her arms around his legs. He chuckled, picking her up to give her a cuddle.

Jena felt a pang of envy that she wasn’t the one in Matt’s arms. It made her question her sanity. Obviously she was feeling insecure and needed a hug. Any strong arms would do. It wasn’t just because it was the grumpy control-freak cop who was doing the cuddling.

Matt put Katy back on the floor and ruffled her hair, making her scowl at him. He nabbed a meat pie. “I spoke to Frank,” he said between mouthfuls. “I don’t like this situation. He won’t tell me why he’s here and I don’t trust him. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone while these guys are in town.”

Jena chewed her bottom lip. She couldn’t stay with Abby, not with Katy around. If anything happened to that baby, Jena would curl up and will herself to die. She couldn’t stay at the pub—even if she could afford it, Frank was probably staying there. She didn’t know anyone else well enough to impose on them. And even if she did, she wouldn’t want to for fear it would put them in danger. She was out of options. It was the church or nothing. At least the church was in the centre of town, surrounded by people. Her house was on the outskirts by the hills—no one ever came there, not unless they meant to. No. The church was her best option. She looked up at the cop.

“I’m staying here. I can’t go home alone.”

His smile unnerved her. “Who said anything about going home alone? Say hello to your new roommate, princess.” He gave her a finger wave.

Jena’s jaw dropped as Abby choked on her soda.

3

For some reason, Matt thought being in Jena’s house would be more comfortable than bunking down in the church. He was wrong. As he looked around her kitchen, he felt the hairs on his arms stand in protest. Even a night on the vicar’s old couch was better than this.

“We can’t stay here.” Just standing in the house was giving him hives. He’d never be able to sleep in it.

“Sure we can.” Jena threw her huge bag on the rickety old dining table, making it wobble. “I stay here every day.”

“In this?” Matt looked around in disgust.

Jena’s cheeks flushed slightly. “It’s a work in progress.”

“Is that what you call it?” Matt would call it a disaster zone. Then he’d cordon off the area and call in a demolition crew.

The state of the overgrown garden—complete with the burned out shell of a car—should have been a hint at the horrors to be found inside the house. Unfortunately, Matt missed the hint. And now he was standing in the aftermath of a war zone. Wallpaper, turned brown with age, peeled from the walls. Cracked linoleum curled up under his feet. Cabinet doors were missing. The counter was chipped and warped, making it look more like a rollercoaster track than a place where you prepared food. The ancient electric cooker had lost the oven door. Three mismatched metal bistro chairs sat beside the table, and two of the seats had been mended with duct tape. A pane of glass in the window was covered with card. The fridge was about a million years old, the white stained yellow with age, and it made the same noise as an airplane engine.

Matt shook his head in wonder. “You’ve been living here?”

Jena opened the fridge. It took two hands and a hefty yank. “Where else would I live? This is my house. I bought it.”

Matt noticed that every surface, no matter what state it was in, was scrubbed clean. There wasn’t a cobweb or a smidgen of dust anywhere. The knowledge that she’d cleaned the place made him relax—slightly. “Even after you saw a picture of this?” He motioned around the room.

Instead of handing him a can of Coke, Jena slammed it into his stomach. Her face an irritated scowl. “They didn’t post photos of this room on the real estate site. And the exterior photos they did post turned out to be years old. I talked to a lawyer about suing, but the sellers had covered their asses in the fine print and I don’t have the money to fight the case.”

“I can see how you’d need every penny you have to fix this place.” He popped the can and took a long drink. It was icy cold. At least the fridge worked. He eyed it suspiciously. If it wasn’t so solid, it could possibly fly too. “Why don’t you pay someone to renovate for you?”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Because, Einstein, I don’t have the money to pay someone. I didn’t know the house needed this much work, so I went on holiday on my way to Scotland. If I’d known what I was coming to, I’d have skipped Paris.”

She motioned at a chair for him to sit. Matt tested its strength before trusting it with his weight. Jena rolled her eyes at him.

“Do you think I’d give you a chair you couldn’t sit on?”

“Hey.” He held up his hands. “Men have a tendency to get injured around you. Better safe than sorry.”

She pursed her pretty lips before turning her attention to the cupboards behind her. “Are you hungry? Have you had dinner? Do you like Pop-Tarts?”

“What’s a Pop-Tart?”

She beamed at him, back to being perky and bubbly. “Only the best snack food in the universe. You’re in for a treat.”

It was amazing to watch her sunny personality bounce back into place. An evil part of him wondered what it would take to keep Jena in a bad mood for any length of time. Then he remembered Frank and decided all it took was cheating on her. For some reason he had a sudden urge to break the man’s nose.

If Jena had to pick a movie role for the hunky cop sitting in her kitchen, it would be Wolverine—without all the hair and the claws. He definitely had the same bulk as Wolverine and, unfortunately, the same surly, sarcastic attitude.

“Okay, so I have strawberry, chocolate and s’mores Pop-Tarts. What do you want?” Matt looked at her blankly. “Chocolate it is.” She tried to keep her voice light and cheery. Normally it didn’t take this much effort.

She opened one of the last few boxes of Pop-Tarts she’d had shipped from the States and put four in the toaster. While they were heating, she grabbed another couple of cans of Coke from the fridge. A minute later, the little pockets of sugary goodness were sitting on plates in front of them. Jena grinned with delight as she pulled her chair closer to the table.

Matt stared at the food. He poked it with a fingertip. Suspicion oozed from him when he turned to her. “What is this?”

“Dinner.” She lifted one of the brown rectangles. “Be careful, the filling is hot.” She took a bite from the corner. Her eyes shut in delight. Delicious.

When she looked back at him, Matt was holding a Pop-Tart in front of his nose. He sniffed. “Are you sure this is food?”

“Take a bite, you big coward. It won’t hurt you.”

He frowned at her before biting into the tart. It was as though she’d asked him chow down on live worms.

“Good, right?” She reached for the second tart.

He chewed laboriously, swallowed hard, reached for his can of Coke and gulped until it was empty.

“That”—he pointed at the tart—“is the most foul thing I’ve had in my mouth since my cousin Flynn dared me to eat mud when I was a kid.” He gave her a look of utter horror. “It’s like sugar-coated cardboard.” He pushed the plate away. “It doesn’t taste anything like chocolate. I’m not sure it even qualifies as food.”

Several thoughts fought for prominence in Jena’s head. One—he’d dissed her all-time favourite food. Two—he was being rude in her home. Three—she’d tried Scottish food, and he had a damn cheek calling Pop-Tarts cardboard. Four—she’d just wasted two of them on the jerk. She felt her fragile grasp on a good mood snap. She pointed a finger at him.

“That criticism is hard to take when it’s coming from a guy whose country thinks deep-fried Mars bars are a gourmet treat. The same country that gave us haggis-flavoured chips. The people who claim that blood-soaked oats fried in fat is breakfast. You wouldn’t know decent food if it bit you on the ass. Give me that.” She reached for his rejected Pop-Tart and took a bite out of it. “Mm, mm, delicious.”

“There’s nothing wrong with haggis or black pudding.”

She shuddered before cramming her mouth with more rejected tart.

“Mature.” His censure was ruined by his grin. “Do you have any proper food in here?”

She waved at the fridge. “Be my guest. Make yourself some proper food.” She had no idea what constituted proper food for the surly Scot, but she was pretty sure she didn’t have it. Since money was tight, she’d been living on Pop-Tarts, and the mushrooms and eggs Abby gave her.