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Who was still flat on his back.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Here.” Still holding Pongo’s collar with one hand, I reached down to help Roman Grier up, but Pongo took the opportunity to bolt back onto him again. Pongo’s momentum ripped me off balance, and I crashed down on top of my movie star crush.
Where I’d always dreamed of being.
But not like this!
I scrambled away from his hard, tight body. God, he really did have the firmest chest. Averting my eyes, I brushed the sand off my shorts and scolded the damn dog. “Pongo. No.”
Roman Grier grasped Pongo around the neck and held him back. “It’s okay. He’s just glad I’m home.”
“Oh.” I blinked. “You’re a neighbor of Jeff’s?”
Roman Grier frowned up at me. Because he was still sprawled on the beach at the mercy of the licking Dalmatian.
I shook my head. “Right. It’s none of my business. Again, I’m sorry. I’ll just…” I reached down again; this time to clasp the leash onto Pongo’s collar. Heaving him back again and away from licking all over Roman Grier’s face—le sigh, lucky dog—I offered my hand again. “Can I help you up?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Roman scowled as he pushed himself up to his feet. “What you can do is give me my damn dog back.”
“Uh, what?”
“My dog. Pongo.”
I looked from an irritated Roman Grier to a whining, wiggling Pongo and back again. “But this isn’t your dog.”
“Look, whoever you are.” He gave a frustrated head shake and ran a hand through his dark brown hair. “I’ve had a hellish twenty-four hours—sixteen of which I spent on a plane. Just give me my dog.”
“Right. I’m sorry for your loss, but Pongo’s not yours. I met his owner. Jeff Jones. Your neighbor, I take it? He’s the one who walked me through the security codes and what all Pongo needs. Jeff didn’t say anything about you, so maybe when Jeff gets home in three days, you should go talk to—”
“You mean my assistant, Jeff?”
“Um, what?” Was this what a concussion felt like? Maybe I cracked my head harder than I thought.
“Jeff Jones is my assistant. I hired him, and he hired you.”
“Oh.” So no concussion. Suddenly, everything was making sense.
And I felt like a fool.
“Right. Here’s your dog.” I handed over Pongo’s leash, and Roman Grier grunted in response.
I tried not to take offense. His sister-in-law had just died—if he even knew since he’d been flying and traveling. Not that I was going to tell him. He looked exhausted. The dark circles around his eyes and the lines bracketing his mouth weren’t something I was used to seeing on him. Not that Iknewhim. I’d just lusted after him for years and pretended like maybe one day he would star in one of my screenplays.
And oh my god, I was standing here staring at him like a rabid fangirl. Get it together, Soph!
“Alright then. Bye.” I gave him a half smile, an awkward wave, and then took off for the back gate to his compound.
Because that was the only way to describe his “house.” He had a large sprawling main house, a swimming pool, and a separate guest house—all backing onto a beach in Malibu. He could swim in his pool, walk ten feet, and swim in the ocean. Okay, more than ten feet, but you know what I mean. It was insane. And a wonderful place to daydream in while I watered his plants and fed his dog.
But all that was over. Three days early. Three days that I wouldn’t be paid for.
I was going to have to pick up another side gig. Maybe I could deliver food or something.
Pongo nudged my leg and licked the back of my knee like he always did. Apparently, he and Roman Grier had caught up to me.
I leaned down and gave the dog an affectionate head rub. I was really going to miss this goofball. Pausing next to the back gate, I waited for Roman to key in the code and smiled sheepishly when he let me and Pongo through first. He might’ve acted a bit like a jerk, but apparently, he had some manners. Not that I’d acted any better. I’d practically accused him of dognapping.
He and Pongo bounded for the main house, but I beelined for the side gate that would let me out at the driveway where my ten-year-old Honda CR-V was no doubt lowering his property value.
