Chapter 9

Seven hours later, I was standing on Zane Bennington's front doorstep. For the third time, I reached out and slapped at the doorbell. With growing impatience, I listened as the deep, melodious chimes echoed from inside the mansion.

The doorbell was obnoxiously loud, and yet, I could barely hear it over the happy yips of the two hounds pawing at the nearest front window. They'd nudged aside the curtains and were slobbering all over the glass.

Good.

If I was lucky, they'd leave some nice scratches, too.

When they saw me looking, I swear, they smiled. They weren't huge, but they were definitely hounds – or whatever someone called short-haired, floppy-eared dogs that were completely out of control.

When I leaned in for a closer look, the darker one gave a particularly happy yip.

Any other time, I might've smiled. But not today. And not here. Still, a very tiny part of me couldn’t help but feel at least a little guilty, because I'd gotten their hopes up for nothing.

I called out, "I don't have any freaking meatballs!"

The dogs stopped yipping for only a split second before starting up again. I told them a second time, but they still looked happy.

Goobers.

I tried to look on the bright side. Maybe if they got really excited, they'd pee on the curtains. And if I got especially lucky, Zane wouldn't even notice until next week, when the stink really set in.

That would show him.

I pulled my attention from the dogs and smacked the doorbell again. Hell, I could do this all night. I mean, it's not like I had a job to go to or anything.

Jerk.

In the back of my mind, I realized that the odds of him actually answering his own door were slim to none. But surely someone would answer eventually.

And whoever that someone was, they'd need to fetch the ass-hat who'd torpedoed my catering job. Or, they'd need to call the police – because I wasn't going anywhere until I saw Mister Fancy Pants in person.

And then what? Honestly, I wasn't quite sure. But I did know that if nothing else, he deserved a piece of my mind. He wasn't a customer anymore – not to me, anyway – so I could be as rude as I wanted.

As I continued slapping away at the doorbell, his words from last night echoed in my brain. "Call me when you're fired."

Oh, I was going to call him all right.

Already, I had a good selection of names. On impulse, I decided to work my way through the alphabet, starting with asshole.

I slapped the doorbell again and started making a mental list.

Bastard.

Cockwaffle.

Dick.

I hesitated. What begins with the letter "e?"

I tried to think, but nothing came to mind. Damn it. This was no good. If I was already stumbling on "e," what would I do when I reached "x"?

While pondering this, I kept slapping away at the doorbell.

Eater of shit?

No. That was cheating.

Enema…? I paused. Bag?

No. That was just stupid.

Praying that inspiration would strike later, I skipped over "e" and moved on to "f."

Happily, this was an easy one. Fuck-face. In the spirit of things, I awarded myself bonus points for using the right letter twice.

By now, I had a pretty good rhythm going. Slap, wait. Slap again. My palm was stinging, and my breath was coming in short, angry bursts. By now, I was so angry that I barely heard the dogs even as they yipped away in the background.

On some level, I realized that I was about to make a spectacle of myself, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

I was still working my way through the alphabet.

Prick.

Quack-head.

Rat-face.

Admittedly, my standards were falling with every letter, but still, I kept on going.

Shit-bag.

I was so lost in my own anger that it took me a moment to realize that a large shadow had crept up behind me, darkening the front door beyond my own silhouette.

I stopped slapping and whirled around. And there he was – Mister Fancy Pants himself. Except he didn't look fancy. And he wasn't wearing pants, not technically, anyway.

Instead, he was wearing black running shorts and some sort of dark hoodie that wasn't even zipped. Without thinking, I zoomed in on his torso. Where a shirt should've been, I saw a wet muscular chest and, below that, glistening washboard abs.

Heat flooded my face, and I yanked my gaze upward. His hair was dripping wet, and a small white towel was draped over the back of his neck.

I stared in utter confusion. Darkness aside, it was only April and unseasonably cold. It wouldn't be swimming weather for at least two months. But that wasn't the only thing that made me pause.

It was his appearance. Last night, he'd looked every inch the billionaire. Now, he was a damp, disheveled mess. Unfortunately, he was also a hot mess, as much as I hated to admit it.

Well, this was just great.

I was so flustered that the next word on my list shot out of my mouth. "Turd!"