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That was just fine with him.
He’d leave the happily-ever-afters to his Hamilton siblings.
Someone knocked on the door three times, and he frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone and wasn’t particularly in the mood to deal with someone showing up on his doorstep unannounced, either.
Placing his MacBook on the couch, he stood, stretched, and made his way to the door. He peeked through the peephole and stiffened. All he saw was a hell of a lot of balloons and a small, feminine hand holding them. “What the…?”
Slowly, he cracked the door open, half expecting this to be some sort of trap. When the woman didn’t pounce on him and profess her undying love…he frowned. She didn’t do anything. Just stood there, hiding behind balloons. When she didn’t say anything, but just mumbled something under her breath, he cleared his throat. “Uh, can I help you, miss?”
“You’re a guy?” She sighed. “Of course you’re a guy.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I just assumed since a guy sent a singing telegram that it was to a girl…”
He choked on a laugh. “Sorry?”
“Whatever, it’s fine.” Without moving the balloons, she said, “I’m here to deliver a singing telegram from Brett Ross. I’m so sorry.”
Before he could ask her what she was sorry for, she opened her mouth and started singing…and he knew. Fuck, he knew. He’d heard dying cats that sounded more musically inclined than the woman hiding behind the balloons.
Swallowing hard, he stepped back into his house, fighting the urge to shut the door in her face. His mother had raised him to be polite, but Jesus, the girl could not sing. He gripped the knob, wincing, and forced his feet to stand still. As soon as she finished, he let out the breath he’d been holding, and said, “Wow. Uh, thank you. Please, come in, place the balloons over there.”
“Yes, sir,” she mumbled, still hiding behind the balloons.
As he headed for his wallet so he could tip her, he said over his shoulder, “That was great, thanks.”
“No, it wasn’t. But thanks for lying.” He heard her moving behind him, and then she said, “Again, I’m sorry. Here’s the card that came with it and—” She broke off with a gasp when he turned around. “You’re Wyatt Hamilton.”
Even though he shouldn’t have been surprised by her reaction to him—and he wasn’t—he was surprised by his reaction to her. She wore a tiny green outfit that fit like it was painted on, her blond hair had been teased eighties-style, she had on dark red lipstick, and her body had more curves on it than an Alfa Romeo.
She was probably five-foot-two, but the way she held herself suggested she had a personality to match a much bigger frame. Her blue eyes were wide at first, but they quickly narrowed as she stepped backward. “It’s…it’s…you.”
“It’s me,” he said slowly.
There was something about her, something intoxicating, that drew his eye and refused to let go. He wasn’t sure what it was—it certainly wasn’t her singing—but he simply had to find out. He especially wanted to know why she seemed to blame him for something, when they’d never met before. If they had, he would have remembered the way she twisted him up in knots without even trying.
“And you are…?” he said, drifting off and hoping she’d fill in the blank.
“Here because of you.” She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. Her actions pushed her breasts up even more, and it took all his self-control not to gape at her like some pervert. The sight did make his jeans too tight around the zipper, though. “How’s your arm, by the way?”
He frowned. “Uh…good.”
“Obviously.” She uncrossed her arms and stepped back again. “You can thank your rapidly healing arm for that little song you just endured. If you had just sat out one more game so your team could lose like a good sport, this never would have happened.”
He cocked his head.
Lose? Sit out? Those words weren’t in his vocabulary.
Most of the time when women met him and knew who he was, they asked for photos, or hyperventilated, or cried. This one yelled at him for his arm healing too fast, and for winning the game for his team. “What happened? Did you make a bet against me?”
“A terrible one,” she muttered, pushing her hair out of her face distractedly. “Almost as bad as my singing.”
“I thought your singing was lovely,” he said, lying through his teeth and not regretting a single second. He crossed the room and stopped inches from her. She smelled like flowers and sunshine, if that even made sense. “It was definitely memorable, to say the least.”
Slowly, he held out a twenty-dollar bill, locking eyes with her and refusing to let go.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
