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I expect to open the door to find more men, and I do. One looks familiar, and one is wearing a uniform and is wheeling a large cart filled with groceries. “Delivery for Allie,” he says brightly.
“Err…yes…that’s me.”
The waiting man steps aside while the delivery guy struggles up the steps and into the wide entrance way. “Where do you want it?” he asks.
“Come in,” I tell the other man, “And give me a second.”
I lead the delivery driver into the kitchen area and begin opening the sleek cupboards so that I can unload the food. Theron and Gabe immediately come to my assistance. “Don’t worry about this,” Theron says. “We’ll handle it.”
As they begin to lift boxes of beers onto the counter, more of the men swarm forward to see what they’re going to be eating and drinking for the next seven days. Typical. What do they say about men? The way to their hearts is through their stomachs. Well, at least whoever Kirsty tasked with organizing the logistics of this trip has the important part sorted.
“Sorry about that,” I say, finally reaching the man standing by the door. This place is so huge I’m going to hit my ten thousand steps target in no time. “I’m Allie. Welcome to the madhouse!”
“Tom,” he says, extending his hand. He’s the other veteran, and he’s certainly rugged and built like a soldier, but his handshake is gentle, and his smile is warm and open. With medium brown curly hair that flops over his forehead, he’s left the regimented style behind with his uniform and gun, unlike Russell.
“Thanks for coming,” I say. “This is all a little crazy right now with everyone arriving.” I turn to the group and find Oliver opening a bottle of champagne and Carson taking a grateful swig from a bottle of bud. “Everyone, this is Tom.”.
There’s a rumble of voices communicating different welcomes. “Beer or champagne?” Oliver asks.
“Beer for sure,” Tom replies and drifts over to the group, asking for names and shaking hands. Men always seem to have an easier time introducing themselves and bonding than women. With sports as the icebreaker, most guys can find something in common.
I watch from a distance, feeling like a kindergarten teacher in charge of a new class of kids, hoping desperately that they’re all going to get along.
“There’s more in the truck,” the driver says. “I was wondering how many people this was going to feed.” His brows quirk in the middle and he looks me up and down, practically stripping the clothes from my body in the process. Ugh. Either he’s a perv or he thinks he’s figured out what’s going on here. Numerous men and one woman in a luxury beachfront property. This setup has the whiff of a porn shoot about it, but I definitely don’t look like a traditional porn star. My boobs are too small and my lips too thin. And I don’t have that long, gently curled hair that they all seem to have.
But the men behind me all have the looks and bodies to fit right into male or female gaze fantasies. Shit. I need my sunglasses to handle the brilliant glare of their collective attractiveness.
“Yes, there are a lot of us.” I stride toward the door, holding my back straight and my chin high and keeping my tone clipped and professional. I’m a journalist, not an adult entertainer. We may be here to discuss X-rated content, but that doesn't mean anything else is going to happen.
As I briskly pull the door open, a man practically falls into me, his eyes wide with surprise. “Shit.” He grabs my shoulders, trying to stabilize us both, and then laughs loudly. “That’s what I call an entrance,” he says. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry…it’s chaos here with people arriving and the food delivery happening simultaneously.”
His ice-blue eyes crinkle at the edges, and he releases his warm grip on my shoulders. “I’m Jimmy. And don’t stress about the chaos. We’re here to have some fun.”
Fun is exactly what I need, and Jimmy’s warm smile and the way he bounces slightly on his toes as he takes in the luxury behind me reminds me of a cartoon tiger from those cute kids' movies.
Another two men climb the steps behind Jimmy as the delivery driver smirks at me. I guess Jimmy’s mention of the word fun confirmed what he thinks he knows, and I give up on worrying about his opinions and concentrate on greeting the final of my interviewees. Clay is the other tattoo artist, and Stefan is Oliver’s advertising exec friend. They’re both as sexy as their pictures. My face hurts from smiling too much and my head is light from the buzz of meeting so many new, attractive people simultaneously.
As I encourage them to join the meet and greet inside, I focus on the creepy delivery driver, asking him to leave the final bags and boxes just inside rather than let him go deeper into the house. I have to sign for the delivery, and when I finally close the door at his back, I’m relieved beyond belief and surprised to find that all the shopping has all been taken to the kitchen and dealt with.
And here I was thinking that I was going to need to step up and take care of these ten men.
I guess unpacking heavy shopping is something they’re happy to do. I wonder if they’ll be interested in meeting our huge catering needs or handling the cleaning up after. Or maybe Kirsty has arranged for a chef and a maid to handle those parts. I should call to find out the necessary details. The absence of any kind of summary of what’s going to happen isn’t exactly enhancing my professional appearance.
I bite my lip, watching Russell empty some chips into a bowl, and Jimmy twist the top off a bottle of beer. Stefan already has a glass of champagne, and Clay is too busy laughing with Carson to bother with a drink.
It feels awkward to interpret the fledgling bromances that are forming before my very eyes, but I don’t have to because Gabe glances away from Theron and notices I’m standing at a distance from the group and immediately seeks to rectify the situation.
“Allie, what are you drinking?”
“I think I should stick to juice,” I say. “And get started on what we’re here for.”
“All work and no play makes Allie a…” Jonas sings, getting interrupted by a punch on the shoulder from Jimmy.
“Leave the girl alone. She’s got business here. We’re the ones who are here to party.”
“How about a compromise?” Oliver pours half a glass of champagne and tops it with orange juice. He holds it out to me across the counter and, rather than object and cause a disagreement, I decide to accept. A small mimosa isn’t going to hurt. In fact, it might help ease out some of the tension from my shoulders and the nerves from my belly.
