“What do you want us to do, Boone?” Coy asks. “Stay on the phone with you? Call the police? Tell Mom that you’re scared and have her call you and hold your hand? What am I doing here?”
“Nothing. Just … I just felt like someone needed to know what was happening. Just in case.”
He exhales. “Great. But could you call someone else the next time you think you might die because you haven’t thought through a situation? Now I have to sit here and avoid Mom because she knows I’m talking to you and she’s going to want to know what’s going on.”
“So, tell her.”
“Tell her what? That you’re not coming back to family night because you’re getting your dick sucked? I’d rather not.”
I make a face. “I’d rather you not tell her that either. Just hang on, and let’s see what happens here.”
“I’m pretty sure my wife won’t appreciate you rattling off some woman’s measurements, brother.”
I press my thumb onto the keypad. A green light blinks, and the lock frees. A click shoots through the air.
Coy and Oliver laugh again on the other end of the line. It distracts me from the potentially life-or-death situation I’m dealing with.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter. “I’ll call you back.”
“Oh, hell. Keep me on the line. Just in case.”
“No. I tried to call you in case I needed help, but you—”
“Boone …”
I step inside the entryway and ignore my brother. Cool air envelops me, along with the scent of lavender from the little night-light thing that my housekeeper put in an outlet the last time she was here.
The decorator pillows from the couch are strewn across the floor. A pizza box sits open on the coffee table, and a pile of clothes are tossed across the loveseat that faces the fireplace.
Everything looks just as I left it, but something feels different.
I wrap my hand around my neck and try to unwind the knot that’s slowly forming.
“Coy, I gotta go.”
“Dammit, Boone—”
I end the call before he can continue.
The brief description from Sarah—that the intruder was totally my type—didn’t help pinpoint who the woman might be. Nor did the fact that Sarah thinks she might’ve seen the woman before but isn’t quite sure.
“They all start to look alike at some point,” she said.
I squeeze the back of my neck again, my heart thumping in quick succession, and listen for some indication of the intruder’s location. Just as I start to second-guess not having a witness if things don’t go my way, a sound from the kitchen makes me jump.
I spin around.
Oh fuck.
Two
Boone
Sarah was right.
Holy shit.
Whoever this is—she’s totally my type.
The woman sucks in a quick breath and stills herself next to the kitchen counter.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, holding both hands out as if to show her I’m unarmed.
I have no idea what’s going on, but there’s no need to make this worse. While she does look a little apprehensive, I don’t think the vibe she’s putting off means she’s ready to commit a homicide. Not that I’ve ever met a murderer before—that I know of.
She blows out her breath slowly. With each microsecond that passes, she gathers more of herself until she finally lifts her chin and throws her shoulders back.
“Who are you?” Her voice is confident and calm—two things someone’s voice should not be if they’ve just snuck into a stranger’s house.
I lift a brow.
She mimics the gesture. The movement causes her cheekbones to nearly touch a pair of moody, hazel-colored eyes framed by the longest, thickest lashes I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure they’re even real. Actually, I’ve seen women put them on to do laundry, so they probably are false. But they’re so long and dark and—
“Hello?” She creeps sideways toward the knives hung on a magnetic strip near the stovetop. “I asked you a question.”
“I heard you.” I clear my throat and try not to smile. “Who are you?”
Her plump lips press together. “Yeah, no. I’ll be the one asking questions here, buddy.”
What?
I take a step back and try to get a better grasp of the situation. But even with the new vantage point, I still think that she seriously thinks that I am the intruder.
She turns her head to the side as if she’s looking over her shoulder and something about her profile snags my attention. It might be her little button nose or the way her hairline forms a distinct widow’s peak that I’ve seen before, but a conversation I had with my neighbor to the east, Libby Seltzer, comes barreling back to me.
“My cousin, Jaxi, will be staying at our house while Ted and I are in San Diego. Keep an eye out for her, will you?”
I lick my lips and grin. I’d love to, Libby.
The woman in front of me cocks her head to the side. “Are you going to answer me, or should I call the police?”
Libby painted her cousin as a sweet girl who was working hard to make it. She did not paint her as a complete and utter dime.
I sort through my brain and wish I’d had paid better attention to Libby’s stories, but from what I can recall, Libby thinks a lot of Jaxi and was worried about her being uncomfortable while she was gone.
I’m all too happy to welcome her to the neighborhood.
After I screw with her a little bit.
“You really want to call the police?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Positive, considering you’re in my cousin’s house, and I don’t know who you are.”
I lean against the wall. The casualness of my movement catches her off guard. She side-eyes me while moving toward the knives again.
“What do you think the police will do to someone who’s in the wrong house?” I ask as if we’re talking about something as easy as the weather. “I mean, it’s probably a felony. Don’t you think? Breaking and entering can’t just be a misdemeanor, especially if you enter through a window and not the front door. Like … with keys.”
She plucks a knife off the magnetic strip. With the knife in one hand and her phone in the other, she moves around the island to the farthest point from me.
“We’re about to find out,” she says.
I hold up a finger. “Cool, but make sure you tell them the address and that Boone Mason is the person you’re talking about. Be clear,” I insist. “That’s Boone with an e. And Mason. There’s really only one way to spell that. Well, I guess you could use a y like some people do, but that’s not usually in a last name.”
Her thumb hovers over the phone screen.
“Boone with an e. Mason with no y,” I tell her, shoving off the wall. “Got it?”
“Why would you just … give … me … your name.”
A flash of understanding zaps through her eyes as she says the words out loud.
She sets the knife down. It clatters as it rests against the granite.
I chuckle as the apples of her cheeks turn the color of her T-shirt—a pinkish-orange hue that suits her well. Slowly, I make my way into the kitchen and stand across the island from her.