her. I hadn’t even looked at another woman sideways pretty much since the moment we started talking. And all that for a woman I hadn’t even laid eyes on yet.
Now I worried that I would somehow not measure up—which was crazy. She’d seen enough pictures of me to know what to expect, and I was not an unconfident person by any stretch of the imagination. It was just that meeting her felt too important.
My flight had been smooth, and I’d gotten as much sleep as I could so I’d be fresh for our “appointment.”
After I dropped off my luggage at home, I took a shower, threw on a T-shirt and jeans, and took longer than I care to admit trimming my beard and messing with my hair. Then I made my way to the Starbucks on Topanga Canyon.
I waited on the patio, bouncing my knee, opening and closing my hand the way I always did right before I played in front of a big crowd. I’d gotten there half an hour early and I sat there scanning the parking lot and sidewalks, completely nervous and laughing to myself because I never got like this—for anything or anyone.
I didn’t know what it meant that I felt like this already. All I knew was that I did.
She was eight minutes late when she called.
“Hey,” I said, picking up on the first ring. “You said Topanga Canyon, ri—”
“Jason, I can’t come, my kitchen is flooded!”
Chaos came through the line. Tucker barked in the background, and I could hear the sound of spraying water. “The pipe under your sink?”
“Yes! Oh my God, it’s a disaster!”
I was already running to my truck. “Give me your address.”
There was a pause.
“I…but…”
I had to laugh. Still? Even now? “Sloan, your kitchen.”
She moaned. “Fine.”
She rattled off her address and told me not to knock.
Google Maps said she was just two blocks away, and I got there within three minutes and ran into the house.
I glanced around the living room, registering only momentarily that I was in Sloan’s personal space. It smelled like vanilla. It was clean. The flowers I’d sent her sat by an easel with a half-painted canvas of a pug dressed like Napoleon on it. I darted toward the sound of distress and burst into the kitchen to madness.
Sloan was by the sink, soaking wet and panting, standing in an inch of water.
Our gazes met, and she hit me like a ton of bricks. My body’s reaction to her was instantaneous. I could almost feel my pupils dilate as I took her in.
She was a woman who would have frozen me dead in my tracks anywhere. Absolutely showstopping.
I allowed myself two heartbeats to stare at her before I tore my eyes away to look around. She hadn’t been kidding, this really was bad.
Towels and what must have been the contents of the cabinet were strewn all over the floor. The doors under the sink were open and water sprayed out. Tucker barked and scratched from behind a door off the kitchen.
I quickly rummaged through the open toolbox on the counter, hyperaware that Sloan watched me. Then I dove to my knees to look under the sink, kneeling in a pond of cold water and taking the spray right in the face.
Sloan had amazing water pressure. I was impressed.
The cutoff valve on the water inlet line was jammed. It took a few hard yanks, but I got it shut off. By the time I stopped the flow, I was completely drenched.
I shimmied out and stood, soaking wet, water dripping off the tips of my fingers. I turned to her, raking a hand through my damp hair. She looked at me, her eyes wide, and we stared at each other.
Wow. This is her.
“Hi,” she breathed.
“Hello.”
The short video clip and the tiny picture of her on The Huntsman’s Wife had in no way prepared me for Sloan in person. She was like a 1950s pinup girl. All tattoos and curves. Long hair, loose around her shoulders, wet at the ends.
Smart, funny, and now this. I’d won the fucking lottery. Why she hadn’t been throwing pictures at me right and left was beyond me. Maybe she didn’t want me to know how good-looking she was for the same reason I downplayed what I did for a living? I didn’t know, but this was a welcome surprise for sure.
Her wide, brown eyes moved down my chest and back to my face. The only sounds were the water still trickling out from under