“In my defense, I’m not in your house,” she says, and my jaw hardens.
“Why would anyone risk going to jail just to get a closer look at a celebrity?” I continue. Then my eyes trail up to the camera hanging in what’s left of my destroyed pergola rafters.
“Right,” I sigh, letting go of her to grab the camera. “Well. I guess that answers that.”
“What answers what?” she asks, looking a little worried. As she should.
“You and your stuff are coming with me,” I say.
She looks confused, and that’s when I throw her and her camera over my shoulder.
Hot water runs down my back, and that makes me even more annoyed. Thanks to my unannounced visitor, this is about as close as I am getting to soaking in my hot tub tonight. Awesome.
“What are you doing!?” she shrieks.
But even her flailing doesn’t discourage my grip. She’s a tiny thing, though shapely, and she’s going nowhere now that I have her in my grasp.
I don’t answer. I simply stalk into my house, close the sliding door, and lock it.
“Why are you locking the door?” she asks as I set her down at the kitchen table. “Oh my gosh, your house is freezing!” She whines, hugging herself.
“It’s because you’re soaking wet,” I say. Not that I’m not, but I’m also not trapped under dark, baggy, identity-concealing clothing.
“Yeah. Sorry about your pergola,” she says as she shivers.
I toss her a throw-blanket from the couch. Then I go through the photos she took while sneaking around in my yard.
“Sorry about your camera,” I say before throwing it on the tile floor and watching it shatter into a million pieces.
“Oh my god, are you insane?!” she gasps. “That was expensive!”
“So was my pergola,” I tell her as I point to the damage. Then I walk down the hall to the linen closet and grab a towel.
“Look, you can’t keep me here,” she says.
“No?” I ask. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll call the–the…the…” she stutters.
I’ve stripped out of the swim shorts, and while my back is to her, there is not much left to the imagination. I smirk to myself, grab the towel, and wrap it around my torso before walking back to the table.
“The who?” I ask. “The police?”
“Yes. Them,” she swallows hard, her cheeks flushing nearly to the same color red as her auburn hair. I bite back a smile.
“I’m the one who should be calling the police,” I tell her.
“You broke my camera,” she says.
“You broke my pergola.”
“You’re holding me hostage,”
“You were trespassing,”
She glares at me. I arch one eyebrow to my hairline.
“It’s my job,” she snaps.
