Page 3 of Not Home Alone

“Coming by the Barn?”

“You know it.” I give him a big hug. “And I’ll be stopping by the drugstore to get you another nose hair trimmer first.”

“You sure you don’t want to have dinner with us tonight?”

“Yeah, I’ve been traveling all day, so I just want to relax and take a bath.”

“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll check in with you later. Welcome home.”

I nod and carry my suitcase up the steps. When I picked up the keys from the property manager fifteen minutes ago, I asked him if there’s a security system and he gave me this look, like, That’s not how we do things around here, missy, have you forgotten? I unlock the deadbolt and expect to hear angels singing when I open the front door and enter the foyer.

I don’t.

But it is peaceful and empty and quiet, so that’s nice too.

I take off my hat, gloves, scarf, and coat, place them on top of the suitcase, and drop my shoulder bag to the floor.

The chandelier is already on. I suppose it’s on a timer. It’s warm in here, so I guess they leave the heat on in the winter. The huge staircase, that is decidedly not woven with garlands and red ribbons, is beckoning me to go upstairs and take that hot bath, but first I’m going to check out the living room. The website photos led me to believe that this entire house is decorated for Christmas all year long, but… I switch on the nearest floor lamp… Nope. There’s a sad, empty space and a smattering of tinsel on the floor in front of the window where the Christmas tree should be. The fireplace mantle is completely bare. I see exactly zero potted poinsettias and not one nutcracker doll. At least there are still red and green Persian rugs covering the dark hardwood floors and the old piano is there.

I spy a vintage style record player next to the fireplace and a familiar-looking album cover on top of the turntable. Bing Crosby’s Merry Christmas. Now we’re talking.

This will do for tonight, Home Alone House. After my bath I’ll light a fire, order dinner and dessert from Vinny Sarducci’s, and this will do. For now. Tomorrow I’ll be going to town on this entire property like Santa Claus is about to go to town on me in the bathtub.

But first—I pick up the record album and open the record player. As I’m about to flip the power switch, “Whole Lotta Love” starts blaring from the built-in speakers in the ceiling. Which is a tad disconcerting. But also an incredible coincidence, because this is my favorite Led Zeppelin song. Except I haven’t allowed myself to listen to it in ten years because it reminds me of someone I do not want to be reminded of.

I get a full-body shiver, and not the kind I usually get when I hear Led Zeppelin.

It’s the realization that I am not alone in this house.

I can sense movement.

As I turn my head to stare into the mirror that’s hung above the fireplace, I can see through the living room entrance to the foyer behind me. In the reflection, I see a man. A mostly naked man in black boxer briefs coming down the grand staircase. He’s playing vigorous air drums along with the song. Before my body goes into freeze or fawn mode, I quickly and quietly reach for a fireplace poker. I can clearly see that the man is unarmed—aside from the abs, imaginary drumsticks, and the yule log he appears to have tucked inside the supportive contour pouch of his underpants.

Gripping the brass poker, I hold my breath and watch the man come to a stop on one of the steps as he notices my suitcase and coat by the front door. His body stiffens. I can literally see his jaw tighten and every muscle in his mostly bare, alarmingly fit body stiffen as he slowly turns toward the living room and takes three more steps down.

His dark brown hair is wet.

His bare feet are large, to support his tall frame.

His wide hazel eyes meet mine in the mirror.

I blink because—no.

It can’t be.

I hold the poker up with both hands like it’s a baseball bat and slowly turn around to face an undressed, grown-up version of the person who humiliated me in front of the entire town ten years ago.

The handsomest, richest bad boy in the history of Holly Grove.

Ruiner of what should have been the greatest week of my teenage life.

Grant freaking Moody.

I hear myself saying, “No!” As if saying it will make him disappear. It worked almost every time his face crept into my fantasies since I last saw him.

He looks even more confused than I am. Blinking once, he mutters, “What…?”

Of course. Of course he has shredded abs. Bastard.