* * *
I don’t rememberwhen we fell asleep, but I hate it when Sandy sleeps over. When I startle awake with Pixel’s barking, I’m pinned under Sandy’s leg and arm, and I have to roll my eyes.
Pixel barks again, and I spring up to put on some sweatpants. She never barks. The only person with access to the house is the dog walker, Chase, and Pixel loves him. She’d never bark at him.
Everyone else who has the code to get in knows Pixel: Roger, Fritz, and even Bren are friendly with my baby girl.
Sandy stirs, groggy, as I rush out of the room to get to Pix and find out what’s wrong. My heart is racing, and suddenly, I have flashbacks to Berlin. The over-zealous fan I thought was harmless until the stalking became too uncomfortable and who, finally, broke into my apartment. I found her in my bathtub, playing anIndustrial Novembersong.
I follow the barking downstairs, then it stops. I walk from room to room, looking for her, and finally find her in the kitchen with someone.
There’s a woman crouched on top of the kitchen island. She’s wearing a massive set of red headphones over blond curls that reach her waist. In her crouched position, I can’t tell how tall she is.
And Pixel, my vicious, trained-to-defend this home, German short-haired pointer, is licking this woman’s hand. “Pixel, you traitor!” I yell, but Pixel keeps licking the woman’s hand. Her music must be blaring because she doesn’t hear me shouting behind her.
“That’s a good boy,” she says to Pixel.
“She’s a girl!” I yell, hoping to get through her music, but I don’t. I come up behind her and remove her headphones. She startles and spins around, arms swinging, and elbows me in the jaw. Hard. I rear back in pain, and her headphones fly in the air.
“Fuck!”
The woman brings her hand to her heart. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! You scared me.”
I rub my jaw. That elbow packed a wallop. I eye her up and down; she looks so tiny, I’ll never live it down if I end up with a bruise from her.
She crouches over the countertop, crawling toward me, and I won’t lie and say it isn’t the fucking sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m equal parts terrified she’s another unhinged fan, and excited at her cat-like movements as she crawls toward me. She kneels at the edge of the counter and reaches out with her hand to touch my jaw and inspect my face. “Are you okay?”
I nod, looking down at her. She is stunning. I don’t know how or why she broke into my house, but I’m rather happy about it even if I should be calling the police. Her eyes are a cool shade of green sea glass, not bright—more like deep, hollow pools with no glimmer—like a doll.
“Here, I’ll help you down.” I grab her by the waist, pulling her to the ground.
When she’s standing, my hands linger at her waist, and I realize she is short. Only about five-five to my six-two frame. Her waist in my hands is slim, fanning out into tantalizingly full hips, and I have an inexplicable desire to turn her around so I can admire her backside.
Her hands wrap around my forearms, and her gaze is frozen to my jaw, a wrinkle between her blond brows. “I’m fine,” I whisper, and her eyes meet mine, locking there.
Her lips open slightly and the air becomes thick and electric around us. I get a whiff of something sweet and artificial, like she’s chewing gum, maybe watermelon flavor, and it’s all I can do not to lick her lips to have a taste for myself.
We’re both oblivious to our surroundings, ignoring Pixel, who is sniffing around her feet—frozen in this perfect moment. My eyes dip to her chest, finding small breasts covered in aTelevision“Marquee Moon” t-shirt. My face lights up with the biggest smile. She has good taste in music.
“What?” she asks, still gripping my forearms.
Instead of answering, I ask my own questions. “Who are you? And why did you break into my house?”
She gasps, clearly at a loss for words.
Then I feel a cold stickiness at my jaw and a matching sensation on my forearms. “Ugh! And what the fuck is on your hands?” I finally push her away, breaking our connection and finding streaks of something gooey and brown smeared on my arms. I wipe my jaw with my hand, removing the same substance from my face.
“Oh, um—sorry. It’s peanut butter.”
“Peanut butter?”
“Yeah, when your dogattacked me, I hopped on the counter, and the only thing I could think to do was reach for the fridge and grab something to appease him with. I was looking for cheese or something—and why do you keep your peanut butter in the fridge?”
She is talking a mile a minute now, nervous, and I smile. “Her,” I say.
“What?”
“She’s not a boy.” I look between the island and the fridge. That must have taken some maneuvering to achieve at that long distance.