I picked up my grocery bag and was about to back away and sneak around to the alley, to go in the back door, when I realized the door of my house was opening.
It opened slowly. So slowly.
My eyes widened and my mouth dropped.
Shayla stood in the doorway, wearing the tiniest little tank top, and the pair of men’s boxer shorts she usually slept in.
OH MY GOD we’re doing a Notting Hill.
The crewmen who were back by the van, close to me, let out some appreciative chuckles and other noises at the sight of Shayla, generally giving their approval.
Shayla didn’t back away from the open door, but stood her ground. She also raised one toned arm and ran it back through her raven-black hair like a professional swimsuit model on a cover shoot.
The big-haired reporter woman jumped up the steps and stood next to her, a microphone held between them.
The woman said, “How long have you been dating Dalton Deangelo?”
Shayla gave the woman a coy look. “Who?”
“He’s here right now, isn’t he?”
Shayla looked down over the crew and made eye contact with me. I shook my head, no. He’d been trying to avoid them for a reason. Furthermore, and I cannot stress this too much, we hate that reporter woman. Hate her!
“Nope, he’s not here,” Shayla said.
Now, if you play poker, you know many people have a tell, a physical sign that reveals they’re bluffing. Some people rub their nose, while others might give too much eye contact, giggle, or sweat. Shayla does all of the aforementioned things.
Sweating profusely, she giggled and made aggressive eye contact with the reporter, then stared blankly at the camera.
Spoiler alert: the reporter lady didn’t believe a word.
“Would you say you’re friends?” the woman asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Keeping things casual?”
“Um…” Shayla’s forehead glistened as she rubbed her nose, coughed, and gave me a wild-eyed, pleading look.
I elbowed my way through the crowd, saying, “Shay, get in the house and put a shirt on.”
The reporter turned and stopped me on my own steps, microphone waggling in my face and tapping against my lips and chin in her excitement.
I shoved the microphone to the side with one hand and said, “Jeez, buy a girl dinner first.”
“And are you the mother?” the report asked.
The nerve! Something shifted in the universe, and everything took on a red tinge. Was I the mother? As in Shayla’s mother? Oh, hell, no. In the words of an eloquent comic book hero, HULK SMASH!
“Of course not,” I snapped. “I’m the sassy best friend with the good advice and a soft shoulder to cry on. Now get off my porch before I break my foot off in your ass.”
She stepped back, looking genuinely frightened, but now she was blocking my front door. She was also reading something from her cell phone, and holding one palm up at me, like she was the traffic cop of my damn porch.
“Seriously, lady?”
“Two questions,” she said.
I looked to Shayla for advice, but she’d already disappeared into the house, much to the disappointment of the leering film crew.
“Sure,” I said. “Go ahead and ask.”
She tucked the phone away, a devious look on her face. “First, isn’t this gorgeous weather we’re having today?”
I slowly turned to the side, looking beyond the camera shoved in my face, at the blue sky. “Yes,” I said. “It’s very nice, if you like that sort of thing.”
“Second,” she said, sucking up air with a deep breath. “I understand you’re sleeping with Dalton Deangelo. How would you describe sex with him?”
I dropped my grocery bag on the porch and raced away from her, down the porch stairs. I knew how to deal with people like this, thanks to Dalton.
I jumped over the flowers, cranked the brass tap connected to the house’s water to fill the hose, then grabbed the hose by the sprayer and sent an arc of water right into the chest of the nearest guy. He had been taking still photos with a camera, but now he held his arms high over his head, yelling, “Not the camera, not the camera!”
“How about the face?”
“Huh?”
I blasted him in the face with the water, then turned on the rest of the crew.
The big-haired woman was not my favorite person at the moment, but I’ll say this: the broad could run and dodge a good hosing. She moved like a movie action hero evading slow-motion bullets.
Within seconds, the lot of them were packed up in their nearby van. I kept the water trained on the vehicle until they pulled away. And then, since I was already in a watering mood, I took care of the potted red geraniums that hadn’t yet been destroyed.
After a little spontaneous gardening, I went inside the house and said, “Who wants scrambled eggs?”
Dalton was walking down the stairs, fully dressed but with scruffy bedhead hair.
CHAPTER 18
Dalton said, “Did that just happen, or was I having a vivid dream about you threatening Brooke Summer with foot-related violence?”
Shayla, who was leaning against the back of our front room sofa, said, “Oh! Brooke Summer. Yeah. I knew I recognized her. Didn’t she leave that one show to have her own show, where she visits celebrities at home unexpectedly?”
Dalton ran his fingers through his dark hair, looking all cute and sleepy and handsome. “I thought her show was all fake, but I guess if today is any indication, she really does ambush people.” He frowned, looking concerned. “Shayla, I’m sorry you got caught up in this. Just pray the producers and editors find the footage of you in your underwear boring and don’t run it.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and started edging around us, toward the stairs. “They can’t do that. I never signed a release.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Dalton said. “They do whatever they want. You can go ahead and sue them, but it’ll be after the fact. They’ll run the footage and photos of you, unless they get something juicier this week.”
“Mothershit,” Shayla swore as she ran up the stairs to her room then shut the door behind her.
Dalton took the bag of groceries from my hand and headed toward the back of the house. “The kitchen’s this way, I assume? I guess I’d better get to work, since these nice eggs you bought aren’t going to scramble themselves.”
I followed him back. “Did you happen to tell anyone about us?” I asked. “I only told Shayla, and my mother.”