I’m not the one who looks sinfully delicious in a top hat.Damn it.
“Why are you here?” I ask again. And I’m interrupted again by three cats careening down the hall.
They start from the bedrooms, so they really get going, and they come racing down to the door on the hardwood, but they have zero traction, so they all skid out, one after another.
Murphy, the hairy tuxedo cat, slams into the back of Pumpkin’s arse, who slams headfirst into Maggie’s rather rotund back end. She turns around and hisses at the boys. She’s a fifteen-year-old gray senior cat, and she likes to keep the boys in line. Pumpkin can’t help himself. He’s an orange cat, and the whole world knows about them now. Murphy tries to be good, but he’s the youngest at just a year old, and he pretty much follows Pumpkin’s lead, and Pumpkin may or may not have absolute menace in him.
Maggie hisses at Pumpkin, who smacks Murphy for no reason. Then Maggie takes off, Pumpkin chases after her, and Murphy brings up the rear of the feline tornado on its way to tear the living room apart.
Wilder grins. Not his smirky grin, but a full-on dimple grin. In that fake beard and wig, his beefcake factor is way beefed up and off-the-charts cakier. It’s no wonder my hormones stand zero chance. Did I mention what those glasses do for his gorgeous eyes? This is unfair. He has an unfair advantage just byexisting.
It’s pure hormone homicide when he sweeps off that top hat like a nineteenth-century gentleman and bows from the waist.
Woof Woof Dog growls but also waggles his fuzzy bottom and shuffles his Bigfoot-inspired paws.
“You thought this would be a good disguise?” I aim for contempt but fail horribly. His disarming, charming grin makes it pretty much impossible to be scowly.
“I did, yes. You have a dog. And cats.”
“You thought you wouldn’t draw any attention wearing something likethat? Sonoma is a small town. If someone shows up looking like they’re going on stage for some kind of wild play, people are going to notice.”
“It’s the middle of the day. I figured a good portion of the neighborhood would be at work.”
I sigh. “Did your driver recognize you?”
“Not a chance.”
“Not a chance or not a chance as in they pretended not to while secretly taking photos and posting them all over the internet?”
He shakes his head, causing the long wig and beard to dance in tandem. “No one recognized me.”
“I did. In one point eight nine two seconds in the tiny notification square that comes up on my phone screen.”
He wriggles his toes. “I think the boots are great. And the pants. I might make them both a wardrobe staple.”
Staring at those pants is like looking directly into the sun. They’re not just a bright, shiny red—the universal color of smashing.Good god. Are you seriously going there? We do not smash our boss. We pass our boss. Yeah, well, he’s not our boss anymore, is he?It’s the pants. They put evil ideas into my head.
And my vagina.
Maybe.
Definitely.
They’re tight, riding low on Wilder’s muscular hips so his entire Adonis V sticks out. And his T-shirt is so tight that all his abs are outlined against the fabric.
But alas, those pants.
Other things stick out against the tightness.
Knob.
Erm. That is my most professional, medical, and educated way of putting it. Probably a good deal of crack in the back too.
Fuck. Me. Sideways. All ways. Always.
Even in the wild getup, it’s still Wilder underneath that. He’s here. He came to my house. It took him eight days, but he’s. Still. Here. He took the time to don a wig, somehow attach a fake beard, and put together this wild outfit made out of clothes that I know for a fact he didn’t already own.
Do I know that for a fact?
