For such a small dog, he makes quite the racket.
I brush the bangs out of my hazel eyes and run fingers through my dark brown hair, hoping it might soothe my headache as I plant one high-heeled foot on the edge of the coffee table and begin to undo the straps of my Louboutin.
I seriously can’t believe I wasted shoes this hot on a night this lame. Not to mention this dress. The long, flowing white Vera Wang, with its paper-thin straps and subtle embroidery, was made for a night with Prince Charming. It’s practically a crime that I wasted it on my dud of a date — Brett spent the vast majority of our evening distracted, more preoccupied with family drama than wooing me. Adding insult to injury, he didn’t even bother to kiss me goodnight when he dropped me at my front door.
Lame.
As soon as the skyscraper-high heels are off, I sink my feet into the plush carpet and hum in contentment as feeling tingles back into my pinched toes. I know beauty is pain and all that jazz, but you’d think spending upwards of two grand on a pair of pumps would ensure, as a minimum requirement, that you don’t feel like a victim of Chinese foot-binding by the end of the night.
Speaking of Chinese…
I know for a fact there’s a carton of takeout lurking somewhere at the back of my fridge.
Immediately, I turn and head for the kitchen, fully intending to gorge myself on days-old lo mein, despite the fact that it’s past midnight and my yoga instructor would sincerely disapprove. (Whatever. She wasn’t the one forced to choke down that wholly unsatisfying dinner of salad, steamed broccoli, and organic free-range chicken.) I’m halfway across the living room, face pinched in concentration as I try to estimate the approximate shelf life of crab rangoon, when my eyes catch up to my brain and I register the sight before me. All thoughts of midnight snackage fly from my head. My stomach, only seconds ago rumbling with hunger and anticipation, clenches hard and turns to stone as my feet slam to a standstill.
For a minute, I just stand there in total silence, staring at the man silhouetted in the archway of my kitchen, his muscular frame backlit by the low light and his face in full shadow.
A man I don’t recognize.
A man I most definitely did not invite into my home.
Holy frack, this isn’t good.
My frantic gaze sweeps the intruder in disbelief as he takes a step closer to me.
It’s then that I scream. Loudly. A real, honest-to-god, banshee-like wail.
I mean, I didn’t even know my voice could hit an octave that high. I’d be impressed with myself, if I weren’t nearly peeing my pants in unabashed, girly terror.
The scream shatters the midnight quiet, instantly waking Boo from his slumber. Not to be left out, he promptly begins barking his little head off, leaping from the couch to stand guard at my feet, as though he, in all his five pound glory — at least a pound of which is pure fur — has the intimidation tactics of a Pit Bull, rather than a Pomeranian.
His whole body lifts into the air with the force of each bark.
Yip-jump, yip-jump, yip-jump.
Very intimidating to the man about to rob, rape, or kill me, I’m sure.
I’m still screaming — and quickly backpedaling away because, hello, there’s a strange man in my house — when I register that he’s big.
Not just tall, but muscular. Even in the dark I can see the outline of his shoulders, the triangular slope of his torso narrowing to a V at his hips. For a split second, I wonder if his face is equally well proportioned.
Good lord.
I’ve started questioning the hotness of home invaders. I really need to get laid.
A low curse vibrates from the man’s mouth, but I barely hear it over the sound of my own screams as I back away. When I see him take another step toward me, my indiscernible babbles of panic turn into words.
“Stay away! Don’t come any closer!”
Hands held out in front of me, heart in my throat, I try not to freak out as he takes yet another stride in my direction.