Showing that my winning streak was holding strong, my old Chevy started on the third try. A total win.
I was climbing out of the truck back home in my driveway when a stranger walked up to me. It was like he appeared out of nowhere, this giant shadow person. My heart hammered as I fumbled in my purse for the can of mace. Why the hell the outside sensor light hadn’t come on, I had no idea. Random attack squirrels could set it off, but not people?
“Thank God you’re here. This is an emergency,” the large man said. Then he saw the expression on my face and took a step back. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I’m from next door. I was wondering if you had a corkscrew.”
My special friend who lived in the next town over would be so disappointed by my failure to spring into action when approached by a vaguely threatening stranger in the dark. When I’d moved back to town, we’d met through his self-defense course. Maybe I needed a refresher in actual defense strategies, as opposed to just an occasional visit to his bedroom.
I did my best to calm my breathing. “Next door?”
“Garrett’s place.” He waved a bottle of wine in the general direction of my neighbor’s house. “I brought up a case of this vintage red and the idiot doesn’t own a corkscrew.”
“Oh.”
And that’s when it hit me. The exceedingly tall, blond, bearded, tattooed man was the lead guitarist from The Dead Heart. Whoa. Guess I should have foreseen the possibility of more famous people in my future. However, it stunned me just the same.
“I’m hoping you have one,” he said with a warm smile, after I’d only been staring at him for a full minute. He just seemed to take my reaction in stride, however. “A corkscrew, that is.”
“Sure. Yes.” I blinked. It took a moment to get my brain back on line. “Let me just . . .”
Smith waited at the door while I fussed with the keys, then rushed into the kitchen. Any wine I drank usually had a screw top. But of course, rock stars drank cases of expensive vintage wine. The bottle he was holding probably cost more than my whole world. He made no move to enter my place, which was good. Strange men in my space didn’t work well for me.
At last, I found it—ever so slightly rusted and hidden at the back of my junk drawer. If they wanted designer barware, they’d come to the wrong house.
“Here you go.” I smiled.
“You should come over for a drink. Have a glass with us.”
“Um. I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
He cocked his head. “Why not?”
“Garrett and I sort of got off to a rocky start and . . . yeah, I’m not sure he actually likes me.”
“See now, there’s your mistake.” He leaned closer and spoke in a low and slow voice like he was sharing a secret. There was a gentleness to the big man that was appealing. Along with the masculine prettiness, of course. “Garrett doesn’t actually like anyone.”
“Huh.”
“He used to be fine, but the last few years . . .”
I raised my brows. “Right.”
“So you’ll come? Great,” he said, offering me his hand. “The grass is a little slippery from the rain. Let me help you out.”
While I probably should have said no, I didn’t have it in me to turn him down. Smith was genuinely charming and I was curious. I wanted to know what overpriced vintage red wine tasted like. And it’s not like I’d be given the opportunity to hang out with rock stars again anytime soon. I may have had a small passing interest in seeing him again. But that was just me being neighborly.
“I forgot to introduce myself,” he said, his grip on my hand firm but gentle. “I’m Smith.”
“Ah, yeah. I know. I’m Ani.”
“I know you are. He said you were a fan.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Wait. Garrett talked about me?”
Smith grinned and led me out into the night.
“Ani,” he said, voice devoid of emotion.
“Hi, Garrett. How are you?”
The man sat in a big old black leather wingback chair with a guitar in his lap. And he did not look happy. How you could be unhappy living in a house with a turret, I had no idea. However, the scowl on his handsome face dominated the room. This is the problem with having a celebrity crush. For as long as they’re out there in the big wide world somewhere, being unattainable, it’s fine. But when they move in next door, things get complicated.
Though I had to admit he’d brought the old Cooper house back to life. A mixture of modern and vintage furniture in black and gray with pops of sky blue. Lots of velvet and leather and wood, which suited the place. The front parlor had been freshly painted the color of a storm cloud and was full of comfy chairs and sofas. More guitars waited on a stand in the corner and a fire burned low in the fireplace. There were no pictures anywhere, though. A veritable wall of vinyl and a killer turntable. But no photos. Which was odd.