One thing at a time. Get out first, and then, if need be, call 911. That would require his keys and phone, which were on the kitchen counter. Purposefully, he strode to the kitchen, calm and level headed, as was his style. Everything had an order—evacuating a burning building included. People first. Possessions last.
On his way to the kitchen, a preliminary check-list ran through his head for a worst-case scenario: Call 911 and report the fire, call his parents and brothers to let them know he’s okay, call his insurance agent and file a loss claim, call the office and make sure things are running smoothly, and then call his tailor to order clothes to replace those lost in the fire.
First though, he needed to get out and assess the seriousness of the situation, which hopefully, was nothing more than a false alarm.
As he grabbed his phone from the counter, his foot crashed into something: the powder blue carrier. The dog was still under the bed. Damn. He couldn’t leave it there. People first, he reminded himself. It wasn’t a person, but it wasn’t a possession either.
Still, the shrill pulse penetrated the wall and a faint smell of smoke accompanied it now. Maybe it wasn’t a false alarm.
Shit, shit, shit. “Come on, dog!” he called, striding back to the bedroom. “We need to get out of here. Dog! I’m serious.” When he reached the bed, he dropped to his knees and saw… nothing. It wasn’t there.
He jumped to his feet and ran his hands through his hair. Everything had an order and sequence. Even chaos.
Over the alarm, there was another sound: a loud, high-pitched yip.
Michael skidded into the living room to find the dog sitting patiently by the door.
“Thank God,” he said, scooping it up and tucking it against his side like a football. “Glad your survival instincts are in working order.” Well, that, or it just needed to pee. Dr. Whittelsey said it would bark at the door when it needed to go out.
When he entered the hallway, he stopped short. The neighbor’s door was standing wide-open and faint wisps of smoke drifted out. Not enough to burn down the building or even trip the central alarm or sprinklers, but evidently enough to set off a smoke detector in the unit. Stepping further in the hallway to get a better look, he froze.
Standing on a rolling desk chair immediately inside the door was a woman. He couldn’t see anything from the ribs up, but he could see her legs and belly—her exceptionally well-toned legs and belly—and her shiny, skin-tight, cobalt-blue exercise shorts adorned with hot-pink swirls.
Surely this wasn’t the house sitter from hell.
The dog barked and the woman leaned down from her perch on the chair and peeked under the door frame.
“Oh, hey,” she said with a smile. “Cute dog.”
Whoa. Cute girl. “Uh, thanks.”
“Sorry for the scare.” She stood again, and the desk chair seat swiveled then stilled. “I’ll make this thing shut up in just a sec.”
The dog whined, then wiggled, and Michael lost his grip, barely able to control the beast’s fall before it hit the floor running. Like a furry tornado, it sped down the hall as an elderly man opened his door to check out what was going on. Since it was mid-morning, most people were at work.
Shit. “Come here, dog!”
“Maybe if I pull here…” Before she could finish her sentence, the chair swiveled, and then tilted while she struggled to not lose her balance. Too late. It was obvious she was going down. Michael charged forward, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her against him right as the chair toppled over, upended casters spinning in the air—spinning like his head as he held her tight against his body.
Convincing himself that his heart hammering a million miles a minute was solely the result of his evacuation scare, always in control Michael Anderson was stunned to find himself momentarily unable to speak…or move…or do anything but hang onto the stranger and stare. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen an attractive woman before, but somehow this one had taken him by surprise. Damn, she felt good.
Reluctantly, he loosened his grip and she slid down his body, her arms looping around his neck before her feet touched the floor. “Thanks,” she said, barely above a whisper, making no effort to move away.
“My pleasure,” he replied, knowing full well that, being completely pressed up against him like that, she could tell just how true that statement was.
The dog barked from the end of the hall, and his head cleared enough to bring him back from his proximity paralysis.
“What the hell is going on here?” the man down the hall called, echoing Michael’s sentiments precisely. What was going on? She was the house sitter from hell, for God’s sake.
Still clinging to his neck, she answered the man back. “It’s okay. I forgot I had some bread under the broiler. Everything’s cool.” The man shook his head and closed his door. Most of the people bought into this building because they valued their privacy. It was held out as exclusive, secure, and quiet. And it lived up to its reputation… until recently.