Noelle went still.
The knock came again, sharper this time. Milo, previously curled up at the foot of the bed, let out a sharp, warning bark and darted toward the front door.
“Who the hell—” I started, already climbing out of bed and grabbing a pair of sweatpants from the floor.
“Your brothers?” Noelle asked, sitting upright with wild hair, snatching one of my t-shirts from the side of the bed.
“They don’t knock,” I said. “And they would at least call first.”
Milo was going nuts at the front door, prancing around with his tongue lolling. He wagged his tail so fast it smacked me in the thigh as I approached the door—then I realized whoever was on the other side was talking.
“Noelle? I swear to God, if you don’t open this damn door, I’m going to break it down.”
I stopped in my tracks, looking back toward the bedroom. Noelle groaned from where she stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but an Ashmore County High Baseball t-shirt. I could see her nipples poking against the thin fabric, and I seriously considered ignoring the person at the door just so I could fuck her again.
I shook my head, reminding myself to behave.
“You know this asshole?” I asked.
“It’s…” she paused, shaking her head and rubbing her eyes. “It’s Shane.”
“Your co-host?”
She nodded, dragging her fingers through her hair. “And my producer…and my ride-or-die who I left on read for the past forty-eight hours while he was covering my panel solo and probably fielding a dozen industry contacts wondering if I’d been murdered.”
The voice came again, louder this time: “I know you’re in there, Kinney! I tracked your location and it’s been stuck at this auto shop for a week—so unless you’re tied to a bedpost or trapped in a well, I expect you to come answer this door like afunctional human being.”
Noelle shot me a wild-eyed look. “I cannot let him see me like this.”
“You look beautiful.”
“I look freshly railed.”
“Which is accurate,” I said with a shrug. “…and also flattering.”
“That’s not the problem,” she said. “I blew him off because I was?—”
“—blowing me?”
“You need tostop,” she said, pointing a finger at me.
But I was already opening the door.
I cracked it open just enough to peer out, finding a Latino guy in joggers, an overpriced hoodie, and the kind of sneakers that shone so bright white it was nearly blinding. He had a coffee in one hand, a phone in the other…
…and a glare fixed right on me.
He blinked, took me in—sweatpants, bare chest, hair a mess—and then looked down at the name stitched on the patch over the shop jacket hanging beside the door.
“Beau,” he read flatly. “You…are Beau.”
I raised a brow. “And you must be Shane.”
“Yes, and I’m here to see my friend so—if she’s even alive in there?—”
He didn’t get the chance to finish his thought.
Because he was tackled by ninety pounds of extremely excited dog.
