Page 44 of The Fake Out

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He put a hand on my lower back and ushered me into the house.

Although I’d never been in the house before or after the renovations, I had in mind something simple that would appeal to a variety of potential renters.

I was wrong. So very wrong.

The front door opened to a large entrance hall, and I gasped. Rustic wood covered all the walls and complemented the reclaimed barn wood floors. A large oval mirror fashioned out of what appeared to be ropy pieces of tree branches hung over a side table, the legs of it made of thin tree trunks. While all that together made me feel like I’d walked into a log cabin, it was not what made me gasp.

That was because of all the eyes staring at me. The eyes didn’t belong to people. They mostly belonged to all the deer. Not just one or two: there were six mounted deer heads proudly on display. On the side table next to a cheery bouquet of wildflowers, a stuffed fox perched, one paw permanently raised as though it was waving hello to visitors.

“Um,” I said, my gaze fixed upon one particular deer whose creepy stare seemed to be following me. “This is a lot.”

“I should have prepared you. Whoever decorated this place was really into hunting. You should see the elk head in the master bedroom.”

“How do you sleep like that?”

He leaned closer and I got a whiff of clean, warm Chris. “I put a towel over its eyes. I can’t handle it watching me all night.”

An image of the big, strong football player cowering in bed because of an elk head amused me.

As I followed Chris through the rest of the house, I took in the gobs of dark wood paneling, the oversized leather furniture, the many, many paintings hung on every possible wall, probably with names like “Alert Dog in Field Who Just Spotted the Mailman” or “Ducks. A Whole Lot of Ducks.”

And. So. Many. Stuffed. Animals.

“Is that a beaver?” I asked as we passed a wall of built-in shelves. “And a squirrel and, oh, an armadillo.”

“It gets worse.”

We stepped into the dining room, and I understood what he meant. There was an entire wall devoted to guns, antique and otherwise. A bobcat perched on a sideboard, its teeth bared. A trio of stuffed mice rested on a shelf. Someone had taken time to arrange them around a miniature table that resembled the big oak one in the middle of the room. One of the mice wore a tiny felt hat.

I hesitated. Chris put a hand on my back and pushed me forward. He pointed to one of the two people in the room; he was razor-thin with quick pale eyes who liked to yell at servers for accidentally spilling barbecue sauce on them. “This is Doug McGill, my agent. You probably remember him.”

“Her?” Doug asked Chris. So much incredulity packed into one little word.

“Hi,” I said. “Nice to see you again.”

Frowning, he inspected me from head to toe.

The woman next to him didn’t wait to be introduced. With her cap of sleek dark hair and shrewd eyes in a short, compact form, she radiated a “I’m nice but do not mess with me” attitude. She held out a hand. “I’m Piper Connor. I’m Chris’s publicist.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Piper clapped her hands. “Why don’t we all have a seat and get started.”

Doug scowled. “Chris, can I talk to you for a minute? Alone.”

The two walked through a swinging door I imagined led to the kitchen. Piper indicated the chair at the front of the table, and she took one at the other end.

“So, you’re a librarian?” Piper asked.

“Yes, I—”

A loud thump interrupted me, followed by muffled, raised voices behind the door. I flinched.

“Don’t worry about them. They have a love/hate relationship, heavy on the hate on both sides. Between you and me, I have never understood why Chris stays with him,” Piper said, her voice brisk but friendly. “Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?”

Someone, I thought Doug, yelled, “I’m done.”

“Um, I’m good,” I said.