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My arms are beet-red from the stinging of the rain and high winds, causing my wet clothes to freeze against my body.
I enter the number for a third time, but just like all the times before, the red light practically laughs in my face.
I make a growling noise and then input the number two more times in quick, rapid succession, only to be met with more failure.
I let out an annoyed scream, but it did little to lessen the tension headache that has been starting to form since I saw the weather report in the LAX terminal.
I take a deep breath and decide to very carefully enter the number one last time before I break down and call Sheridan while she is undoubtedly asleep.
I reach for the door, but as if by magic, it swings open as I twist the handle. Only, there’s no fairy Godmother on the other side.
Instead, my eyes bulge out of their sockets, and my heart practically explodes in shock as a shirtless spartan in only a pair of boxer briefs whips open the door.
Skin… so much tanned bare skin.
And bulging muscles.
Finally, my eyes make it up to his face.
I don’t follow hockey closely, but this man is easily recognizable.
Lucky Wrenley
Goalie for the Hawkeyes hockey team and the same face I’ve seen plastered over the jumbotron that hangs on the side of the Hockey Stadium only a couple blocks from my apartment. He's one of the oldest players on the team and at least ten years older than me.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls.
I’m not completely sure if that’s rainwater that just dripped down my leg or if I just peed myself a little.
Chapter Four
Seven
As if this day wasn’t long enough with storm prep and more texts for Josslin, I woke to the sound of someone attempting to break into the house's front door.
I don’t bother to put on a shirt or a pair of pants. Whoever this fucker is trying to gain access into my house at one in the morning is going to have to deal with the repercussions of their actions while getting their ass handed to them by a pissed off guy in his underwear.
The minute I swing the door open with one hand while clutching a baseball bat in the other, I’m ready to meet whatever unlucky bastard decided to try to rob this house. Only when I open the door, I’m taken back at first to see it’s not some asshole robber hitting up all the houses that have been left abandoned by homeowners fleeing the area. Instead, it’s a woman at my door.
A woman who, by the look of her dropped jaw and wide-eyed stare of dread, appears more shocked to see me on the other side of the door than I am to see her.
She looks more like a drowned cat than a red-blooded woman. Her brown hair is dripping wet and stingy from the rain and humidity, with some strands plastered against her face. Her black mascara has already started running, giving her tired, baggy eyes a raccoon-like effect.
“What do you mean, “What am I doing here?” This is my rental as of three p.m. check-in time yesterday afternoon. What are you doing here?” she asks.
I can’t tell if the drowned cat has something against curse words or if she just wasn’t listening closely enough.
I might have found the lack of her using the f-word as endearing if she wasn’t copping up an attitude with the guy who owns the porch she’s standing on and who she woke up in the middle of the night.
“I own it,” I say simply.
She looks down at her phone and then back at me.
“That can’t be right. I have a confirmation email saying that I rented this place for the next two weeks.”
Two weeks?
Like hell, she’s staying here for two weeks.
