Page 3 of The Ex-Best Thing
Bouncing on my toes, I consider my options. There’s no streetlamp, and the houses are all sleepy. It’s so late, it’s technically morning, so I don’t blame them. But thisisthe house I’ve rented for the next four weeks, and it’s not breaking and entering when the person who’s supposed to let me in gave me the wrong code and is probably asleep, right?
I sneak around to the back of the house—there are no fences here, which I find interesting-slash-mildly concerning—and try the back door. Locked.
But there are two windows over the length of bushes lining the house. The first one doesn’t budge, but the second one moves a little when I throw my full weight into it, wedged into the prickly bush. Hallelujah. It only takes a few more heaves to get the window up enough for me to slip through. Getting over the hedge onto the sill is another matter. I’ve never been so glad for Paula, my relentless trainer and Pilates instructor, helping with my core strength. Planks and mountain climbers to the rescue.
I heave over the windowsill and fall on the wooden floor in awet heap. It’s warm in here, which is surprising since the house spent the day empty.
I roll onto my back and breathe out. I made it.
The room immediately illuminates around me. Glaring light blinds me with sudden force. I scream, noting a man in dark clothes and messy hair standing a dozen feet from me with his hand on the light switch.
Jumping to my feet, I reach for the closest thing to defend myself. I’ve had a few close calls over the years with whack jobs. That’s the nature of living a public, famous life. But never have I been in such proximity to an attackerall by myself.
I should have done less mountain climbers and more kickboxing last week.
“Stay back,” I warn, brandishing my statue of a—what is this? Looks like a carved wooden sea lion the size of my forearm and is much, much lighter than I expected. It’ll likely crumble against the guy’s forehead if I try to defend myself with it. But he probably doesn’t know that.
“Me?” he says, scoffing. His voice is deep gravel and his eyes are alarmed. “You’re the intruder.”
“Am not!” I shout.
“Did you not just climb through my window?”
“No. Yes. Well…” I shake the sea lion at him. “Defineyourwindow. You own this specific window?”
A strangled laugh slips out of him. He rubs his hand over his eyes, pushing his hair back and exposing his face.
It takes everything in me not to gasp.
Iknow this man. It’s Benny freaking Rhodes, my one-time teenage boyfriend who I’ve not seen in years because he fell off the face of the earth after breaking my little heart.
Doesn’t he live in Montana? We’re pretty far from Montana. If this is a case of him thinking he’s renting this Airbnb, wewillbe having words. Once I can load my emails.
He narrows his eyes. “You look really familiar.”
A shrill laugh comes out of me, and I prop my sea lion on my hip. Whatever happens in the next five minutes, I can’t allow this man to recognize me. This is not a conversation I’m capable of having. Luckily, my disguises are apparently still working. Freckles and blonde wigs for the win. “Weird. I get that a lot. One of those faces.”
His skepticism is growing.
“Anyway,” I say loudly, searching for a way out of this mess. I no longer fear for my life, at least. Unless hedoesneed witness protection, he’s harmless. Benny has probably changed in the last ten years, but I doubt he gained murderous tendencies. This is just a mix-up, which is a huge relief. “I think you’re in the wrong place. I booked this house for?—”
His expression straightens. “You bookedthishouse?”
“Yes,” I say patiently. “On Airbnb.”
“I see.” He looks at the open window. “And the door code didn’t work, so you let yourself in?”
“Exactly!” I knew he’d understand. “It’s been a long day, so if you could leave?—”
“Listen, I realize it’s late and you’re probably tired, but this isn’t your Airbnb. It’s my house.”
Please let him be wrong. I can’t afford a reality where he lives where I’m supposed to find refuge. “I double checked the email on my way here.”
“All the same, the house next door is a short-term rental property, and this is not.”
Hot mortification seeps into my cheeks. I’ve never been so grateful for a wig. He still doesn’t know who I am. I need to hightail it out of here before he sees through the black eyeliner dripping down my face and the short blonde bob to the reality show star he left in the dust a decade ago.
Oh my gosh, I just leaped through his window.
