Worth the Risk(6)

“No need to say it, Zo. As long as you promise me to never see that bastard again, then I’m okay.”

“Done. Lesson learned. Moved on.”

“You good, though?” I ask, knowing full well how bruises fade on the skin but not on the mind.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Love you,” I say.

“Love you more.”

“Look, I’m almost there.”

“Let’s hope he has the je ne sais quoi you’re looking for.”

“Doubt it. I’m a hard woman to please.”

“Like I said . . . you’re a picky bitch.”

I pull up to the curb and park, a sigh falling from my lips. “You’re right. I am being a bitch. I feel like I’ve been going a hundred miles an hour since my dad gave me this assignment. I miss you. I miss home. I miss my bed—”

“Your bed is amazing.”

“I have no roadmap here. I work in an office with a bunch of people who aren’t sure if they should help me or hate me, and the only thing I know is that I can’t let my dad down. We’ve gained some publicity for the magazine with this contest, but it’s nowhere near where I need it to be . . . so yeah, I’m just exhausted and bitchy.” I laugh because I really do sound like a prima donna.

“Well, fingers crossed this Grayson guy will be the one.”

“Thanks.”

“Good luck, and may your thighs be sore from clenching them together by the time you leave.”

I end the call and stare at the address on my GPS and then back to the same numbers on the front of the house. The structure sits back from the road. Its stone veneer is various colors of brown, and the veranda spans its length with a big porch swing to the left. The grass is green, the beds are full of blooming flowers, and a bike ramp of some sort sits along the side of the house. A pickup truck is in the driveway, and a basketball hoop is off to the left of it.

I take one more long look at suburbia run amuck and wonder what will be on the other side of the door when it opens. What will Grayson be like? His wife? His son? Will he remember me?

As I make my way up the front path, laughter floats through the air, and the distinct sound of pots and pans comes through the open windows. I hesitate for some reason, and then I knock.

A voice inside yells, “Dad!” More dishes clink. Then there is the vibration of footsteps across the floor.

The door swings open.

My first thought: what the hell? I’m met with an oversize silver colander sitting on the head of whoever is opening the front door. No face, just the rough cut of a jaw, the stubble on his chin, and silver holes hiding everything beneath it.

My second thought: holy shit. He is wearing a plain white T-shirt that is a little too tight and stretches around biceps that aren’t too big and aren’t too small, the fabric between just snug enough to showcase every toned, cut inch of what lies beneath. Broad shoulders. A tapered waist.

Please . . . pretty please let this colander-wearing stranger be Grayson Malone because, hello? He just stopped me in my tracks. This is what I’ve been looking for. This is who I’ve been looking for.

A jaw-dropping guy you want to tear your eyes away from because you know you are staring but can’t help yourself.

Let the thigh-clenching commence.

And I haven’t even seen his face yet.

Is it asking too much of the universe for him to be some kind of tortured hero to boot?

Too much? Thought so.

“Can I help you?” His voice is deep and gravelly and scrapes over my skin in a way that makes me want to stand there and wait for him to speak some more.

For the first time, I have chills just from speaking to one of my finalists. Or is that a tingling hot flash? I’m not sure, but the one thing I am certain of is that he’s exactly what I’ve been looking for. Let’s hope that when he hears the news, he’s still the nice guy I vaguely remember him to be and that he’ll be thrilled to be a finalist . . . and maybe the Hot Dad poster child I’m already making him out to be in my mind.

“Um. Yes.” I force my eyes off his torso and back up to the colander, where I can just see the curve of his bottom lip as it turns up into a smile.

“Dad!” a voice calls from somewhere in the house, right before footsteps pound down a hallway and then abruptly stop. “Oh my gosh. You’re so embarrassing.” A belly laugh. “Take that off.” A slink of two small arms around Colander Man’s torso.

“Sorry.” The man turns to face his son and removes the colander. “But I am your father, Luke,” he says in his best Darth Vader impersonation.

The little boy laughs, and I feel like such an outsider standing on the porch as the man ruffles the little boy’s hair I can’t quite see yet.

I clear my throat, and by the way Colander Man whips his head in my direction, it’s as if he had forgotten I was there. I’m struck immediately by the man looking back at me. Light eyes. Messed-up brown hair. A grin that is wide and inviting.

Yep. He definitely has the “it” factor.

When our eyes connect and recognition fires in his expression, that smile that could warm your insides slowly falls, bit by sexy bit.

Oh crap.

“What are you doing here?”

The bite in his voice says it all. He remembers.