And then I freeze, my entire body turning to a block of ice while my heart is whipped into an all-out gallop. Because straight ahead with his back to me, a mountain of a man stands in front of the open refrigerator.
And he’s naked.
His head cocks to the side and he turns holding a beer. Seeing me, he freezes, too. My eyes climb from his frank and beans, which are impossible to ignore, to his head. Even with the pair of pink-framed, heart-shaped, mirrored sunglasses covering his eyes and blond hair pulled back in a small ponytail, his face looks vaguely familiar.
Do I know him? How would I know him?
Reason argues with the strange feeling lurking in the back of my mind that I’ve seen his face before.
“Freeze, asshole, or I’ll let go of my dog.” I hold up the can of pepper spray to show him I mean business.
Roxy starts barking, barking, barking. Within seconds the barking turns to whining. Like she can’t wait to say hello to this creep.
His sunglass-covered eyes drop to Roxy and as proof positive that the good Lord hates me, my pit bull falls onto her back, pink boobies in the air, and wags her tail so hard and fast I can feel the lashing sting of it on my anklebone.
The naked giant lifts his sunglasses, setting them on top of his head, and his sharp blue eyes narrow on me.
Uh-oh, this is not good.
“Don’t move! The police are on their way!” I jerk the pepper spray at him in warning.
“Let me see your hands,” orders a male voice to my right. My head swivels to discover two police officers crowding the doorway, a woman and a man, guns drawn.
Hallelujah. I take my first deep breath in minutes, my knees turning to liquid beneath me as the adrenaline rush burns away all at once.
The intruder wisely raises his hands while a feeling of déjà vu comes over me. Something about his face keeps scratching at the back of my memory.
“Grant Hendricks?” the male police officer asks, a quirk in his tone that speaks of surprise and amusement.
“Mmm,” the naked one growls.
Policeman’s face lights up. He holsters his gun. “Mena, this man is a legend.”
Mena holsters her gun as well. “No shit?” Except Mena is looking south of the dude’s waist. “I can see why.”
Gag. Time to butt in. “Hellooo? I hate to interrupt this romantic interlude but this guy is trespassing. He’s a squatter. He broke into my brother’s home and trashed it!” I feel the need to underscore loudly since both of them are now smiling at the perp.
“Ma’am, this is no squatter. Grant Hendricks is the most decorated player in the history of the Titans organization.”
Shit. My brother’s teammate.
Chapter Two
It’s been 905 days since I’ve had a drink and right now I’m counting the minutes. Not because I’m craving one––I’m not. My addiction was an emotional crutch and I’ve learned much healthier ways to deal with them. It’s because the milestones mark how far I’ve come; how hard I’ve worked; the grit and determination it took.
There isn’t much I’m proud of––I can’t even claim credit for Sam; he was born a good kid––but I’m proud of this. Even if, occasionally, every now and then, in moments such as these, I wish I could call my old friends Mister Grey Goose and Sir Belvedere and invite them over for a dirty threesome.
“There’s a very large man living in your house and he’s ornery as fuck,” I hiss into my cellphone while I pace in circles, wearing out a doughnut into the driveway. The second the cuss word comes charging out of my mouth I glance around to see if small ears are nearby. Thankfully, I find my son and his dog sitting on the porch swing.
“Your brother’s not that bad,” my sister-in-law replies.
“Holy crow, I am not talking about Cal. Did you know a teammate of his is staying at the beach house?”
Once we got it cleared up that the big blond was not, in fact, trespassing, I went outside to call my brother’s wife since my brother never answers his phone. He’s a one-syllable kind of guy and she’s naturally sweet and outgoing. Now that he’s married all family communication gets routed through her.
“A teammate? Which one?”
Calvin has never been Mr. Popularity. Neither in the family, nor with his millions of fans as the starting quarterback for the NY Titans, which is why I’m shocked to hear one of his teammates is staying at his house. “Greg Henderson. He’s in your house––parading around naked.”
My sister-in-law chuckles. “Wait, who? Naked? What do you mean, naked?”
Naked is putting it lightly; miles and miles of tanned flesh was on display. More than I ever want to see of a total stranger.
“I walked into the kitchen to find him naked as a jaybird with the worrisome exception of the kiddie sunglasses he was wearing. Little girl glasses, Camilla. Little hearts. His ding-dong was hanging practically to his knees and he had little pink hearts over his eyes! Does this sound okay to you?”