When the newspaper broke my window at four in the morning, I didn’t stop to think about the fact that I was wearing sweats. Not thin, make-your-butt-look-cute yoga pants but old school sweats: cuffs cinched tight around my wrists and ankles like rib-knit shackles, plus deflated airbags of material sagging at my crotch and knees.

This is definitely something I would have considered if I’d known I was going to open the door to biceps like his.

Turns out my renegade paperboy isn’t a boy at all; more like six feet two inches of pure man-candy. With his fist raised to knock, all his muscles stand out in exquisitely stark lines, and I’m definitely not staring. Or maybe I am, because he takes a step back and drops his hand, brow furrowing.

“Shit,” he says. “Shit.”

I quirk a brow. I’m five foot flat on a good posture day, so it must be the atrociousness of my sweats that’s putting the fear into him.

“Don’t tell me this was a revenge window-breaking and you got the wrong house.” I nod toward my neighbor’s place. “Did Mr. Schmelzly steal your girl or something?”

His eyes dip below my collarbone for a second, but I’m not exactly worried about my lack of a bra. This sweatshirt is so baggy I could be packing the curves of Santa Claus or Kim Kardashian under here and he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

“I wish I could claim it was revenge. More like a total failure of motor skills.” He grimaces. “I’m so sorry about your window. They give us a half day of training, which felt like four hours more than anybody should need, but right now, it’s looking like I could have used five.” His shoulders hunch as he gives me a sheepish look. 

My annoyance melts, and I offer, “In your defense, it was the Thrifty Tuesdays paper. Tuesday has some serious heft in tampon coupons.”

“Plus, the supplemental entertainment section.” His face relaxes into a smile. “If it’d been a Wednesday, you might have been safe. Here, can I at least help you clean up the glass?” He steps forward.

“Uh...” I hesitate, surprised that he’s offering to do housework. Not to mention he probably has another twenty miles to pedal to finish his route, because who the hell gets newspapers delivered these days? Though I guess if anybody did, it would be this neighborhood, where I’m the youngest by four or five decades. Not exactly the iPad generation.

“I’m sorry, you probably don’t want a strange guy in your house who just broke your window. Trust me, I’m not a serial killer or anything. If I were going to kidnap you, I’d like to think I’d be a lot smoother about the whole thing.”

“Good to know. There’s nothing I hate more than an inept kidnapper.”

His eyes lighten at my response. “That doesn’t seem fair. Shouldn’t you hate successful kidnappers more? There’s the ride in the trunk and the whole ransom debate...it’s probably a real pain.”

“Nah, people love successful kidnappers. Because Stockholm Syndrome.” A smirk tugs at the edge of my mouth. “Shouldn’t you be convincing me to trust you, not defending kidnapping fails?”

“Right. I’m batting a thousand this morning, aren’t I? Sorry again.” He blushes, actually blushes.

He’s like a walking sex dream with close-shaved hair and a cologne-commercial jawline, and I have no idea how a guy can be this hot without a trace of cocky to go along with it. Abruptly, I realize I’ve been holding those delicious dark-chocolate eyes for longer than I have any right to when I’m dressed like somebody’s Aunt Melba. I step back to let him inside.

“No problem. I promise by the time we work the glass out of my shag carpeting, you’ll have worked off every debt you’ve ever owed.”

He glances down as he steps over the threshold, then sucks in a sharp breath. “Your feet!”

I follow his line of sight. There’s some chipped green polish on my toenails, but nothing that requires an exclamation point. Though now that I look closely, there are a couple of tiny blond hairs growing on top of my big toe. Gross. Do people tweeze toe hairs? Is that a thing?

“You don’t have shoes—are your feet cut?”

I prop one hand against the wall and lift my foot to check for blood. “Nah, I’m set.” I don’t bother to check my other foot. He’s close enough now to weigh in on my toe-tweezing dilemma and frankly, his was not an opinion I had hoped to poll.

“Here.” He hops to keep his balance as he pulls off one of his sneakers and hands it to me.

I consider this trophy, tipping my head. “Um, thanks?”

“Put it on.” He flushes, though this time I’m not sure why. “If you tell me where the dustpan is, I can start picking up the big pieces while you go get your shoes.”

Bouncing on one foot, he removes his other shoe, wobbling for a second so his shoulder bumps into mine. He blushes again at his clumsiness but earnestly pushes the other one of his Cadillac-sized Vans at me, waiting until I put them on.

Now I have clown feet.

I peek up at him, my lips losing a battle with a smile that’s pure are-you-for-real-right-now?

His eyes fly from his Vans up to my face, his gaze snagging on my lips. “Uh...”

A year ago, a look that hot from a guy like him would have been the Holy Grail of my dating existence. But now, he’s more like the picture of Ian Somerhalder that Granna once taped to our vacuum: something pretty to look at while you clean, and nothing more.

I shrug, wishing the movement could shake off my goosebumps. “Give me a second to grab my own shoes and I’ll be right back.”

“Um, yup. I’ll just be here, then.” He folds his hands in front of him, but the corner of his mouth twitches irrepressibly upward. “Researching successful kidnapping techniques on my phone, so you’ll trust me.”

I choke on a laugh. “Yeah, because that’s not creepy at all.”

Except as the smile spreads across his face, lighting his eyes, it really isn’t. I’ve known the guy for five minutes and if a real criminal burst through the door, I’d probably jump behind him.

Besides, we already know he can do some real damage armed with a newspaper.

"If you hit expert level before I get back, I want my cut of the ransom," I call as I slide-waddle my borrowed shoes across the crunch of outdated carpet and splintered glass. Each one of his puffy skater shoes is as long as both my feet put together, and I have to shuffle along like an old lady or risk them falling off. If my bandmates could see me now, I’d never hear the end of it.

When I get to my room, I shove a dark strand of hair back into my messy bun, ignoring the small, hopelessly female part of me that wants to search for a hairbrush. I kick off his shoes in favor of a pair of pretty ballet flats, then glare down at my feet. I peel them off and stuff my feet into a heel-squashed pair of slippers. My subconscious definitely cannot be trusted.

After Andy and I broke up, I set my Facebook status permanently to Single and dropped my makeup into a bottom drawer. I’m done putting my ass on the line—or into a set of Spanx—to impress a man. So instead of primping, I hook two fingers into the back of the stranger’s Vans and carry them into the living room.

“The trash can is in the kitchen,” I call out, “but if you want to do some heavy lifting, my behemoth of a vacuum cleaner is in the hall closet. We call her Bessie. Well, and a few other names I probably shouldn’t mention if you happen to be religious. You’ll see why once you—” I break off as I round the doorway and realize I’m talking to myself.

I glance at the huge sneakers in my hand, then up at the rest of the room. My guitar still sits in its stand, my crate of semi-collectible records resting next to my antique turntable. Everything that might interest a thief is still here, but of my walking sex dream, there’s not a trace.  

He’s just gone.