CHAPTER ONE
There’s never a good time to find a stranger asleep on your front porch. But after having walked home from happy hour with your grandma is possibly the worst. The stars are shining, the cicadas are singing, and the whole world has a fuzzy distant feel to it. Like I need to focus, or there’s a chance I’m going to fall on my ass. I’m in no condition to be dealing with a trespasser, or much of anything.
My last vodka berry bramble might have been a mistake. Though an argument could be made that processing a breakup requires one drink too many and bitching about your ex to complete strangers in a bar. We had such a good night. Give or take the shadowy figure passed out on the daybed beneath the soft glow of the fairy lights strung from the rafters.
“He’s a big sucker,” I whisper-hiss from the steps. “What do we do?”
Grandma silently picks up the walking stick from beside the front door. The one she uses when wet weather sets off her bad knee. It’s wooden with climbing roses carved into it by a local artist. She swings it once or twice, testing its weight.
“You can’t just hit him.”
“I wasn’t planning to, dear,” she says. “Or not at first.”
“Should we call someone?”
“Let’s just assess the situation,” says Grandma. “Shine some light on him, June, would you?”
I aim my phone at the unconscious stranger. The sad fact is there’s a dearth of perfect asses. So it’s surprising to stumble across one in a small town in Washington State. And while I’m busy objectifying him—there’s nothing wrong with the width of his shoulders and breadth of his back. Same goes for histhick thighs and tree-length legs. The stranger passed out on Grandma’s porch is yoked. No idea about the rest of him. His long brown hair is a tangled mess, and his face is turned aside and cast in shadows.
Which doesn’t stop Grandma from recognizing him. “Oh, for goodness sake. Wake up, Nash.”
The stranger mumbles incoherently, and Grandma pokes him none too gently with her walking stick.
“Ow,” he says. Nash, she called him.
“What are you doing here?”
Nothing from him.
“Nash…”
“Please don’t poke me again,” he says in his deep, smooth voice.
“Then get up and give me some straight answers.”
He moans and groans and gets to his feet. My fear of heights would kick in if I were that tall. But not this guy. He just pushes his hair out of his face with a heavy sigh. The nerve of him to look hot as fuck with bloodshot eyes. He doesn’t appear to have slept in days. No wonder he was out cold. And I have the weirdest feeling I’ve seen his face before. Like this dude is seriously familiar. It’s the wild hair and beard and general air of deshabille he’s got going on. Ripped black jeans, a matching tee, and cowboy boots.
Nash squints down warily at my grandmother with her weapon and says, “I thought little old ladies were supposed to be nice.”
“I will beat the shit out of you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
“Is that how they say ‘I missed you’ where you come from?” Given the circumstances, he still sounds surprisingly cool, calm, collected, and amused.
There are many reasons why I admire my grandma. Not only is she great to go out with, but she tolerates no nonsense. “I haven’t heard from you in over two years and now you turn up here. Are you all right?”
“Of course, I am. I was just on tour. You know what it’s like. But I decided it’s time for a change.”
“What does that mean?”
Which is when it hits me. “Porter. You’re Aaron Porter. Oh my god.”
His smile is a brief flash of white teeth soon hidden by the tangle of brown hair again. I don’t know how he puts up with it.
“Nash,” says Grandma in a stern voice. “Answer me.”
Hands on hips, he announces, “I decided to quit being a rockstar and need somewhere to hide out for a while. What do you say?”
This feels like an alcoholic fever dream. Sitting at the kitchen table with a famous person drinking chamomile tea. Life comes at you with both speed and strangeness sometimes. I keep wanting to pinch one of us to see if this is real. But I settle for tugging on the end of my dark braid and frowning in confusion.
