Goldie Locks: Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance - Page 8

Before I can get off the phone with my dad, there’s a loud knock at the door and Phoebe goes to answer it.

Aware of my insane level of arousal, I try to hang up my call, keep the obvious discreet and make sure I’m within reach of Phoebe as she opens her door.

Something dad said, about her maybe being in trouble and having that door locked up so tight. Makes me realize there’s a lot more to the Phoebe Gold story than just my need to be buried balls deep inside her.

Before I can get to the door with her, she’s opened it and I hear an oddly familiar voice.

It can’t be. Could it?

“Mrs. Peterson,” Phoebe exclaims loudly, sounding more like she’s opened a box of turds than the door to her landlord.

I sense a lot from Phoebe, the look on her face the same as when she mentioned payment for me coming out. And now a matching tone with her landlady.

It doesn’t take a genius to guess that maybe things aren’t so great for Phoebe in the finance department.

I feel for her, want to scoop her up here and now, whispering in her ear that she never has to worry about anything so stupid as rent ever again.

But her landlady, old Mrs. Peterson bursts that bubble with her cutting voice. The one I remember so well from all those years ago.

“You took off before we settled the rent, young lady,” the old woman says cuttingly.

Her voice has a curious effect on my arousal, and I find I can make myself seen now. Funny how some people just have that effect on others. Well, Phoebe has the opposite effect.

I move up behind Phoebe and the old woman looks past her, our eyes locking before hers narrow.

“Humph. You!” she says accusingly, wagging a finger, almost poking Phoebe with it.

“I never thought I’d see you here again,” she almost shrieks.

Phoebe turns to me, confused.

“Long story, I’ll explain later,” I murmur to her, trying and failing to move between her and her landlady, determined to get rid of the old witch.

She’s one of those nice as pie old people until things don’t go her way. Then the truth comes out. Being old is no excuse for being an asshole.

“You better not be spying on my tenants,” she adds, hissing at me as her eyes grow suddenly wide with realization.

Dismissing me with a wave of her hand, she turns her attention back to Phoebe.

“And you? Two weeks late from last month and two weeks into this month… And you’re supposed to be a month in advance…”

I watch Phoebe shrinking under the old woman’s words. Like she’s having the life drained out of her.

“…That’s… Two thousand dollars by my reckoning, plus the quarter for the phone call you made,” she announces. A horrible smile showing gray teeth as her frail body shakes with laughter.

“If you don’t have it, I’ll have to find someone who can pay. You’re a pretty face, but I need tenants who can pay their way,” she continues and I notice Phoebe’s body starting to shake with sobs.

“And don’t try the waterworks. They won’t work on me,” The old woman adds.

I can feel my fists clenching, my jaw so tight I can’t even speak.

“If I could just have until next week, Mrs. Peterson, I can get you all of it when I get paid,” Phoebe tells her, mustering all her strength but losing to tears before turning to me.

“She’ll need a receipt,” I hear myself saying loudly as I reach for my billfold.

“What?” The old woman shrieks. “Who are you, her daddy?” she sneers.

Her look changes and so do her manners once she sees me counting out crisp hundreds from the folded stack I have in my jacket.

“I’m her locksmith,” I inform her, holding out the stack briefly and then pulling it back quickly, reminding her about the need for a receipt.

“Max. No,” Phoebe says, her hand on my arm.

I’d pay a thousand times more just to feel her against me for a second longer.

I’d give it all up if I knew it meant I could claim her right now.

“I don’t have my book with me,” Mrs. Peterson protests, her hands clawing the air between us as she reaches for the money again.

“I’ll wait,” I tell her calmly, feeling Phoebe’s grip loosen. Her hand and then her whole body moving away from me.

Closing the door in the old woman’s face, I should feel a little thrill of payback from all those years ago, but it’s only Phoebe I care about now.

“You can’t do this, Max. I won’t let you. I don’t even know you. We just met. You said it yourself, you’re just the locksmith,” she tells me, sniffing back tears and wringing her hands.

Even Trixie the little dog looks upset, shivering next to her mommy’s bosom.

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