“How did you get in here?”
That’s not what you want to hear when you’re staring into the sea-green eyes of the hottest man you’ve ever seen. Yet I suppose it’s a fair question, considering I’m an uninvited stranger standing in Boone Mason’s kitchen.
If you think that’s bad—just wait. It gets worse.
This charming and wealthy playboy, who can’t pay his bills on time or find his way to the grocery store (but we all have flaws, right?), is sweet. Confident. Playful. He’s almost perfect. And, to make matters worse …
He’s smitten with me.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re rolling your eyes. You’re assuming this is some opposites attract situation—or that maybe we can be friends who turn into something more.
How can this be a bad thing?
Well, it’s simple. I’m not the kind of girl you fall in love with. Just to be sure, the universe reminds me of that in an unforgettable, in-your-face kind of way.
I might have broken into Boone’s house, but I won’t let him break my heart. I won’t break his either. There’s too much on the line to be that reckless.
“If you don’t hear from me in twenty minutes, I’m probably dead.”
My Audi roars as I hit the gas. The sound drowns out my brother’s reaction to my statement—one I’m sure he’ll discount as dramatic.
In all actuality, it probably is a little dramatic. What are the odds that I meet my Maker on a random Saturday evening because a woman is at my house? I’d say that the odds are in my favor.
I knock on the faux wood on the car door to be safe before hitting the gas again, enjoying the push back into the seat from the accelerator.
Coy sighs. “Are you done?”
He sighs again.
“Are you done?” I mock him as I pilot the car around a huge tree branch in the street. “My life is on the line here, and you act like you don’t care. All you do is sigh.”
“Oh, cut the shit,” he says, trying to hide a chuckle. “Where are you going, anyway? Our whole family is still here besides you. Are you coming back?”
I flip on my turn signal and press the brakes. “I don’t know. Let’s see if I live.”
My home, a riff on an Italian villa, looks no worse for the wear as I pull into the driveway. I stop at the garage and hit the button to lift the door. Then, just as quickly, I rethink my actions and punch the controller again.
I might be fairly certain this whole thing is going to end up fine, but why take unnecessary chances? There’s no need to ask for trouble. Garages are where the serial killer hides and stabs you in the back as you get out of the car. I’ve watched enough movies to know that.
I take a deep breath and survey the area.
The flower beds appear to be undisturbed. There aren’t any cars that scream trouble parked in front of my house, and there is no smoke or broken glass or faces peeking through the blinds. No red flags whatsoever.
Good, but weird.
“Sarah, the lady that lives to the west of me, called and said that a woman was climbing into my bedroom window a little while ago,” I say and slide out of the car.
“I’m being serious,” I tell him.
“I’m sure you are, but isn’t this normal behavior for you?” Amusement laces his tone. “Because, for the record, this is exactly how I envision your life—women leaving through the front door while others scale the walls to sneak in the back.”
I shake my head as I shut the car door behind me. “That’s not been a thing since I was in high school.” I pause. “Well, there was the one instance last year—but that’s irrelevant.”
“Sounds pretty damn relevant to me under the circumstances.”
“It’s not. A girl I was with wanted to try some reverse-knight-in-shining-armor role-play shit, and …” I cringe as I realize how stupid this sounds. “Anyway, you get the picture.”
This is my life.
He chuckles. “What I get is the fact that you’ve lived a better life than I have, and I’m the damn rock star of the family!”
“Rock star? That’s a stretch,” I joke.
“Oh, fuck off.”
We laugh at the same time.
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