I felt Jackson’s gaze on the side of my face, but I ignored him, not wanting to get a lecture about my Neanderthal tendencies toward the female gender. As I watched my tenant, her sleeve rolled back and I could see a tattoo on the inside of her wrist. I squinted. Was she one of those girls who got the ubiquitous butterfly tattoo on her arm? Probably.

There was an effortless grace to her movements, and when she puckered her lips to blow the steam away before she sipped, I found myself watching her mouth a little too closely. I glanced away. My first assessment about her had been correct, and I wasn’t going to change it.

“She’s just average,” I said. I tried to sound dismissive, but my voice dipped a bit lower than normal and Jackson didn’t look like he believed me.

“Average for what?” he asked. “A goddess?”

“Goddess?” I choked. “Sure, if you’re sight impaired.”

Jackson laughed, that annoying booming laugh that came up from his belly and encompassed anyone in a hundred-yard radius. “If you say so,” he said.

He turned away to go grab more of his gear. He was whistling as he gathered several resistance bands, or as I thought of them—implements of torture. I turned back to the window and took just another quick peek at the woman who was going to be living in the little guest house on my property for the next six months.

All right, so with that long mane of curly dark hair and heart-shaped face, she was actually quite pretty. Since I had no intention of ever interacting with her during her time here, it wasn’t relevant to me in the least. As I watched, she opened an envelope and a sheaf of papers fell into her lap.

I felt my face grow warm. Those were the additional rules I’d had Miguel deliver to her yesterday. Why I felt a sudden surge of embarrassment, I had no idea. Probably because in my mind I had pictured Annabelle as a nerdy, man-hating graphic designer, with glasses, improbably dyed blue or green hair, who dressed from neck to knee in too big, secondhand store cardigans, ironic T-shirts, and old-school lace-up sneakers.

Instead, I watched this unexpected—What? What was she? A girl? A woman? The words swirled around my head, not quite locking into my fuzzy brain. The only word that clicked was Jackson’s. Goddess. I watched as this unexpected goddess—I rolled my eyes—read my rules with a smile tucked into the corner of her mouth, as if she thought I was joking. I wasn’t. Not even a little.

Annabelle

4

I brewed a pot of coffee in the oh-so-high-tech coffee maker, which had a cool milk frothing doohickey built into the side. I could foam up my morning cup of joe? Fancy. I might never leave.