My dancing is interrupted by the sound of the back door opening.
“Uh… hello?”
My mouth goes dry.
Dirty blonde hair, messy and curly, a scruffy beard, muscles. Muscles for days.
It takes a second for my brain to put all the gorgeous pieces into place, to register that this very attractive man is staring at me, a twist of confusion on his handsome face.
It’s only a second, and I’m snapped back to reality. It doesn’t matter how good he looks.
There’s a man in my house.
Two
“Who are you?”My voice is too high-pitched, too mousy and scared. I’m supposed to be a strong, independent woman. Not someone who shrieks back in fear. I stand up straighter, channeling my fictional, sassy P.I. “Are you trying to rob the place? Because I haven’t even moved in yet so there’s nothing to steal.”
The man steps onto the porch, lifting an eyebrow as he looks me up and down. “I think you have the wrong address.”
“No, I definitely don’t. You need to leave or I’ll call the cops.”
He chuckles.
My hands slap onto my hips. Ithinkthis is a power pose, but I’m not so sure. There’s something about being in this guy’s intense stare, his light brown eyes seeming to shoot waves of fluttery electricity thought me that makes it hard to focus.
“Trespassing is not funny!”
He tilts his head. “It’s a little bit funny, especially when I’m not the one doing it.”
“Youarethe one doing it,” I snap.
He chuckles again. “What address are you looking for? I can help you find it.”
“I don’t need any help. I am right where I need to be.” I tug my purse off my shoulder, set it on the wooden porch railing and dig through it. When I find the papers I’m looking for, I hold them up triumphantly. “I have a signed lease.”
“I do, too,” he says.
“No, you don’t.”
He grins. “You want to see it?”
I nod. Then I follow him into the house. Intomyhouse. Only…
My blood runs cold with humiliation as I look around the place. It’s basically a messy construction zone. Plastic tarps cover the floors, power tools litter the kitchen. Gallons of paint sit on a drop cloth in the corner. Oh no.
My jaw drops. “This isn’t my house.”
My house was a little outdated, but it was all put together in the online listing photos. This house is someone’s renovation project. I’m in the wrong house! My fictional P.I. Rosa would have never made this mistake.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, turning and rushing out of the back door. I jog across the porch, down the three steps, and run back to my car, my heart pounding rapidly. How could I have been so stupid?
My cheeks are burning and are probably pinker than the flowers in the front yard as I start up my Jeep and throw it into reverse. The tires roll backwards and the trailer jets off crookedly, shaking my car as its wheels veer off the driveway and into the yard.
“Crap,” I say, shifting into drive. I pull forward a bit, then try to back out again.
This is so not happening. The stupid trailer keeps going off the driveway, rolling into the grass every time I reverse. My heart is racing and I’m freaking out. I’m about to ask Siri to show me videos of how to drive with a trailer on your car when there’s a tap on my window.
I roll down my window and put on the fakest smile in the world. But fake-smiling is better than crying, right? “I’ll be out of here in just a second,” I say.
