Jasmine turned into the visitors parking lot of Chantam Hills gated community. She felt fortunate to have been included on the “approved” list for charitable organizations that were allowed to visit the exclusive neighborhood for scheduled fundraising. Today involved going door-to-door, handing out flyers for the spring event at Hope House, where she worked as the fundraising manager.
She checked her hair and makeup in her rearview mirror, fidgeting with her bangs a bit, then refreshed her pink lipstick before she grabbed her backpack and climbed out of her Subaru Forester and locked the door.
March in Alabama usually meant sixty degrees with sunshine. But the weather had been unpredictable all winter, and she buttoned her tweed jacket, hoping to block out some of the cold wind. She approached the security shack, pulling her wallet out of her bag before she knocked on the window.
A middle-aged guard slid the window open and smiled. “Good morning,” he said. “What can I help you with, ma’am?”
“My name is Jasmine Komisar and I work for Hope House.”
He grabbed a clipboard. “Let me check the calendar.”
“Thanks.” She gazed around the neighborhood. Four white pavilions welcomed anyone who entered the neighborhood. Extensive gardens and woods surrounded the community, along with a ten-foot green security fence that she didn’t like very much.
“You’re all set, ma’am. Can I see your ID?”
Jasmine offered her driver’s license and the guard jotted something down on the paper on the clipboard.
“Here.” He slid the clipboard toward her. “If you could sign right there.” He indicated a spot on the bottom of the page.
She read the fine print first. Reminders on how to conduct herself while canvassing the neighborhood. If homeowners had a red diamond hanging on their front doors, it meant they didn’t want any solicitors. Finished reviewing the rules, she signed the paper.
The guard scanned the sheet, then offered her a badge to clip to her jacket. “I’ll let the patrol unit know you’re approved,” he said. “And here.” He held out a twenty-dollar bill.
“What’s that for?”
“The kids.” He grinned.
“That’s very generous of you, Mister…”
“Gene,” he said.
“Thank you so much, Gene.” She fished a flyer out of her backpack. “Join us next month for the Hope House Spring Festival.”
“Will Carson Savage be there?”
Carson was Jasmine’s boss and friend. “Yes. Several of the Warriors will be there.”
She gave Gene the flyer, then walked through the pedestrian gate.
Perfectly trimmed lawns, cobblestone walkways, triple-wide roads lined with ancient magnolia trees and rose gardens, expensive street lights every few feet, and white-brick mansions with wraparound porches welcomed her. There wasn’t a bus stop in sight. It’s not that Jasmine begrudged anyone their success, she didn’t. And the people living in Chantam Hills were beyond successful. These were legacy families or plastic surgeons—politicians and Wall Street geniuses, the type of people she needed to keep Hope House going. She just wished they were more accessible, more hands-on when it came to helping the high-risk kids she worked with.
She ended up at the first intersection and checked the neighborhood map she’d printed at her office before she’d left. Should she take Marlon Avenue or Marilyn Street first? She rolled her eyes; the streets were cleverly named after Hollywood royalty. She chose Marlon, picturing Brando as he looked in The Godfather. That made her smile.
After the first four houses she’d already successfully collected three hundred dollars in checks. The last home on the cul-de-sac sat by itself, larger than the other houses, chalet style with beautiful diamond-paned windows on all three floors.
“Okay,” she said out loud. “Work your magic, Jasmine.”
Putting on her confident smile, she made her way to the entry and rang the doorbell. No one answered, so she waited a minute and pressed the bell again. This time a dog barked from inside—a big dog. The door opened, and a man wearing swim trunks with a beer in his hand smiled at her.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Jasmine didn’t know what to say, his ridiculously sculpted chest covered in fine black hair, tapered waistline, and six-pack—maybe eight—she’d have to count the muscles in his abdomen very slowly to be precise, had stolen her voice and ability to look him in the eyes.
She heard him laugh and clear his throat, then say, “What can I do for you, Jasmine Komisar?”
He looked familiar, but how did he know her name? She met his amused gaze and frowned more out of embarrassment than irritation. “How do you know my name?”
He pointed at the nametag clipped to her collar. “Says right there.” Then he shook his head. “Wait. Hope House?”
“Oh. My. God.” She wanted to run away. “Ty Baxley?”
“You’re that little brat from Penn State Carson hired last year!”
“University of Pennsylvania,” she corrected. “And if anyone is a brat…” Something moved behind Ty, and she looked over his shoulder.
Not one, but two women wearing bikinis joined them at the door.
“What’s taking so long, baby?” one asked, locking her arms around him from behind.
“Thought you were bringing us another bottle of wine,” the other complained.
Jasmine wanted to puke. Every stereotype associated with an overpaid NFL player had just been proven in thirty seconds at Ty’s front door. That’s when she remembered her list of addresses to avoid. She pulled her notebook out of her backpack and opened it. Crap. Ty’s address was on the top of the list.
“What’s that?” Ty asked, still looking entertained at her expense.
“Nothing for you to worry about.” She closed the notebook, but before she could stash it, Ty plucked it from her hand.
“Let me take a peek.” He thumbed through the pages. “No-go list?” He looked at her, then back at the paper. “Avoid 8887 Marlin Avenue, Tyrone Baxley, asshole.”
As he read her notes, she lowered her head. No one was supposed to see that.
“You think I’m an asshole?”
“Well…” she started.
A vehicle stopped in front of the house and an armed security guard climbed out of the truck. “Everything okay, Mr. Baxley?”
Ty’s eyebrows rose and he looked down at her. “Are you going to beat me up or something?”
“No.”
“Just fine, Andrew.” Ty waved at the guard.
“Really?” Jasmine snatched her notebook back. “You needed to ask me that before you dismissed the security guard?”
“Hey,” Ty said. “Dynamite comes in little packages, right?”
“At least you confirmed my observation.”
“What observation?”
“To avoid this house. Thanks for your time.”
She turned to go, but Ty tugged on her jacket. “Wait a second.”
“Come on Tyrone,” the women whined.
“Ashley. Macie. Go ahead back to the hot tub.” Ty shooed them away. “Sorry about the distractions.”
“I have to go. I have a lot of ground to cover.” Jasmine said.
“You’re here to get donations for Hope House, right?”
“Yes.”
“Come inside.” He opened the door wide.
“In there?”
“Um, yeah.”
This isn’t what she’d expected, an invitation inside Tyrone Baxley’s sex nest. “Okay.” She stepped inside the marble-tiled entryway. A crystal chandelier hung overhead, and an antique oval table with a vase full of red roses was arranged against the far wall. Elegant taste. Not what she’d expected.
“Wait here, Jasmine.” He disappeared down a hallway and returned a couple minutes later with his checkbook. “Here.” He tore a check out and handed it to her.
She looked at the check. “Three thousand dollars?”
“Of course. For the kids.”
He had her tongue-tied again. Was she wrong about him being an asshole? He’d certainly acted like one when she’d first met him. But if this was the kind of donation he gave, maybe she should take him off the no-go list. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.” He winked at her. “The kids are lucky to have someone like you looking after them. Tell Carson I’ll call him later.”
“Okay.” She started for the door.
“Hey, Jasmine.”
“Yes?” She turned around.
“Have dinner with me.”
Her gaze moved up his body, taking in every detail, stopping on his big brown eyes. “I can’t do that.” Then she ran out the door before Ty had a chance to change her mind.