Guessing my thoughts, she speaks up with a nervous giggle. “It wasn’t easy,” she admits.
“Impressive.”
She smiles with self-satisfaction clear on her face.
“Still, you haven’t explained why you broke into my house.”
She rears back, clutching the peanut butter jar. “I’m not breaking in.”
“You’re not?”
She laughs, and the sound seeps warmly into my chest. I want to hear her laugh all the time—but the smile doesn’t reach her sad eyes.Why are your eyes so sad?“You think that given a chance to break into Karl Sommer’s house, I’d steal peanut butter?” she asks.
“Maybe you’re homeless and hungry?” I say, defending my theory, though it’s far more likely she’s another stalker fan. But if she is, the last thing I should do is bring that up.
She shakes her head, places the lid on the jar, then returns it to the fridge. She walks over to the sink to wash her peanut butter-covered hands, pulls paper towels, and comes back to where I’m standing.
I should be afraid she is a potentially dangerous stalker who might have moved into the mansion without me noticing, like what happened to Stephen King that one time. But I’m highly entertained by her.
She grips my forearm again, heating my skin where we connect, and wipes away the peanut butter. “I’m sorry about this,” she says, concentrating on cleaning me up. “And for hitting you,” she adds.
“Are you a crazy stalker fan, then?” I ask, but can’t hide my smirk when I look at her.
She shakes her head again. “No. Sofia asked me to come. I’m your housekeeper for the day.”
A housekeeper? “Oh yeah. She mentioned something about getting the place cleaned.”
“Please don’t tell her I hit you.”
I laugh. “And how do I explain the bruise?”
She runs her hand through her hair to scratch her head, making her curtain of curls rustle. My god, she’s beautiful. I stick my hands in the pockets of my sweats to occupy them so I don’t cup her face between my hands like my fingers itch to. “I’m sure you can come up with some badass story about a fight. It’s way better thana tiny blonde elbowed me in the face after turning my dog against me.”
“Ouch. Kick a guy while he’s down.”
She laughs again. “I’m sorry. I’m only joking—”
“No, no. You’re right. She’s trained to protect me, and she was putty in your hands.” I glance over at Pixel, who is now lying down next to the housekeeper’s feet. “I’m very disappointed in you, Pix.”
“Pix?” she asks.
“Pixel. That’s her name. She also answers to Pix, Pixy, Pixy-doodle, and caboodle-doodle,” I say and grin wide.
The housekeeper’s head tilts to the side, and then she bursts out laughing. “Well, it’s nice to meet you both. I’m Dolores Beltran. My friends call me Lola, but I also answer to Lo.”
“Lola,” I say and smile at her. I’m not sure why, but I want to be the one to lift the sadness from her gaze.
“How’d she get the name Pixel?” she asks.
I crouch down next to Pixel and run my hand through her brindle coat. “See here?” I point to the back of her neck. “There’s this white heart shape? Like a pixilated heart?”
Lola’s eyes squint as she tries to make out the shape. “Yeah. I see it. It’s a great name for a dog.”
“I’m glad she didn’t bite you.”
“Me too. Gave me a good scare, though.”
“She’s never made friends with anyone so fast,” I say as I eye Lola up and down. What is it about her that made her instantly likable to my grumpy dog? “It took Fritz, our bass player, three weeks of coming over nearly every day to get her used to him. I had to resort to taking a sweater from him and putting it in her bed so she got used to his smell.”