I slowly haul myself out of bed, running a hand through my hair before dragging it over my face. I check the time on my phone—seven twenty-three. So much for sleeping in.
But I suppose I need to get moving, anyway. I’m meeting Troy and his friends for brunch this morning.
I’ve already met with Troy twice this past week—once to get to know him, and once to talk more about the elbow injury that took him out of the MLB for a year. It’s the same injury that he came back from to win the last World Series and quickly became the inspiration for my next movie.
I might have hadotherreasons for insisting on making this film—personal, unfinished business—but artistic integrity and a heroic story were an easier sell to my agent.
So when Troy suggested brunch with his friends, knowing I’ll be in town, shooting for the next few months, I didn’t hesitate.Besides, my ex-sister-in-law’s new fiancé strikes me as a solid dude overall, so hanging out with him is far from a hardship.
Theatrics forgotten, Bob jumps to his paws behind me, trusty bra in his mouth as I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth, then to the kitchen. I try not to stub my toe on one of the few boxes I told the decorator not to open as I make my way there.
How she and her team managed to furnish this home—curtains, paintings, and all the shit that makes a house feel lived-in—only hours after I purchased it, is beyond me. But I guess that’s what I pay them for.
And speaking of purchasing this home, if I hear what a “professionally irresponsible” decision it was from my team once more, I’m going to start handing out pink-slips.
Yeah, I get it; it’s not the sort of home a Hollywood A-lister might settle down in. Sure, there are security guards posted at the gated entrance to this upscale private neighborhood, but the homes themselves aren’t walled off, or hidden behind iron gates or towering hedges. Just tree-lined streets, kids riding their bikes, and front porches decorated with potted plants and swings.
It’s the kind of normalcy my heart has been searching for since . . .her. Since that one fucking fateful night seven years ago, when I came back to an empty house and a goodbye letter I still carry around with me.
This was the kind of life I’d promised her we’d have, but never delivered.
Yet another regret to add to my long and weighty list.
So when Troy casually mentioned that the house across from my ex-wife’s was on the market, I considered it fate.
Some might call it stalking, but eh, tomato, tomahto.
Of course, since I purchased the place, my team went into panic mode, installing cameras, arranging security detail aroundthe neighborhood, and monitoring everything as if I’d just been elected president. And though they’re pissed at me for not letting them ask the neighborhood to sign NDAs, I told them to relax. I didn’t move here to sit inside a bunker; I moved here to breathe . . .
And execute my plan.
If that means I’ll be photographed here and there, well, la-dee-fuckin’-da. There are enough pictures of me on the internet to satisfy even the craziest fans, so what if there’s one more?
That doesn’t mean I’ll be stupid and purposefully get recognized or photographed. Hence, the reason I wore the balaclava and gave my middle name at thedojanglast night.
Plus, there’s also Nisha’s privacy to think about. She never cared much about getting photographed when we were married, as long as the paparazzi kept a respectful distance, but I wouldn’t want to put her in the limelight again without her consent. It’s why I’m going to make a concerted effort to be low-key and fly as much under the radar as I can.
With Bob waiting patiently—okay, more like he’s watching my every move like a hired P.I.—I take a cup out of the cupboard and place it under the kind of coffee machine that looks like it requires an advanced degree to operate.
I’ve just pressed what I think is the “Make My Coffee and Don’t Explode” button when my doorbell rings.
Bob’s reaction is completely over-the-top, as is everything my dog does.
First, he lets out a low gruff, drops the bra from his mouth, then charges the door with a bark loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Then, squaring his shoulders, he plants himself in front of the door, staring at the doorknob as if daring it to turn. He gives two more barks for good measure.
When I don’t rush behind him with equal fervor or concern, he drags his droopy, judgmental gaze to me. I can practicallyhear him say,“What the fuck, man? Am I the only one who gives a crap about becoming the next headline on a true crime show? I’m too pretty for this shit.”
“Christ, Bob. It’s probably just Alex,” I mutter, referring to my publicist as I walk toward him. “You know the asshole doesn’t believe in weekends or boundaries . . . or normal working hours.”
But when I open the door, it’s not Alex on the other side. It’s an Amazon box.
Bob approaches it like he’s a Homeland Security agent, sniffing it for explosives, drugs or, God forbid, butterflies.
Yeah, my ginormous dog is terrified of butterflies or moths or basically any other harmless winged insect. A couple of weeks ago, a small blue butterfly landed on his nose when he wasn’t suspecting it, and he practically fainted. Seriously, his tail was tucked so tight against his belly, he looked like a corgi.
Don’t ask me why he is the way he is. At this point, I’ve just accepted it.
The thought makes me smile because it reminds me of someone else I know. Tough as nails on the outside, with that sleeve of tattoos I’ve traced with my fingertips, coal-dark eyes that miss nothing, and that beautifully stubborn jaw I’ve felt against my lips. She’s also the same woman who’s deathly scared of balloons.
