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I step farther into the shed, but he’s too focused on repairing his motorcycle to notice me. The music probably isn’t helping either. I spot the speaker on a shelf near the door and walk over to turn down the volume.
He looks over his shoulder, and his entire body freezes. His gaze moves from my face to the knife in my hand.
“First you hit me with your car, and now you show up with a knife? Why are you so intent on killing me?” he says in a gruff tone.
“I found this in the kitchen,” I say, quickly lowering the knife. “I thought someone broke into my house.”
He slowly rises to his feet and puts the wrench down on the workbench. Even though I already know how huge he is, watching him straighten to his full height makes me take a step back.
“Why are you here? And why is your stuff in my house?” I ask.
His brow furrows. “Your house?”
“Yes, my house. I bought it.”
He shakes his head as if I’m lying, then grabs a dirty rag from the workbench and wipes the grease from his hands. “I live here.”
“What do you mean, you live here?”
His eyes narrow as if I just asked the dumbest question in the world. “Exactly what I said. This is my home.”
I stare at him. “But I paid for it. Did you?”
His nostrils flare. “This has been my home ever since I drank Dr. Karloff’s fucked up punch that turned half of us into monsters. I don’t care if you paid for it. I’m not leaving.”
I scoff. “That’s not how this works. You have to leave.”
He crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Oh yeah? Make me.”
I swallow. He could floor me in an instant with his bulging biceps and big horns. Although, would being pinned to the floor by him be such a bad thing? What if…
No, Romy! Absolutely not. You’re not allowed to be attracted to the man illegally occupying your house.
“Fine. Then I’ll call the cops.”
“Go right ahead.”
His complete lack of concern catches me off guard. I expected him to argue or at least look a little worried, but instead, he picks up the wrench and crouches beside his motorcycle again.
“You don’t think they’ll make you leave?” I ask.
“Nope.”
I stare at his broad back. “Why not?”
He shrugs and fits the wrench around something near the wheel. “Because everyone in town knows I’ve been looking after this place for years. Nobody’s going to throw me out just because you show up waving paperwork.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re allowed to live here.”
Another shrug.
I let out a frustrated sound and look down at the knife still clutched in my hand. Maybe threatening to call the police while holding a kitchen knife isn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had.
“Who let you move in here in the first place?”
“It was empty, so I moved in.”
“Ha! So you don’t have a lease?”
