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Zoe

I was having a good dream. A really good dream. And I would still be. If it weren’t for Bronco.

I’d be in a beautiful couture gown, floating up the stairs at the front of the ballroom, music swelling and peers cheering. I’d take that gorgeous golden statue and offer my most heartfelt gratitude to the cast and crew that made it all possible. I’d thank my mom and my Nan—and later say in all the excitement I forgot to mention my dad.

Instead, I’m wiping slobber out of my ear as I glare into Bronco’s saggy brown eyes. He shakes his head, his ridiculous ears flopping wildly as the sterling silver tag on his collar jingles. He breathes dog morning breath into my face, and I slam a hand over my nose while using the other to push him away.

I open my mouth to holler for Nan to come get her pure-bred mutt out of my room and off my bed.

Except, it’s his room. And the doggy steps leading up to the foot of the bed suggest this lumpy mattress is very much still his.

At best, he’s loaning it to me. Under duress. I’m pretty sure Nan threatened to cut his treat rations if he didn’t share. As any good producer knows, craft services are the key to keeping the talent happy.

Under Nan’s roof, Bronco is the only talent that matters.

Even if he did just steal an Oscar out of my hands.

He lets out a little woof and pokes my arm with his wet nose. I’d give my next royalty check to be able to flop over, pull the rosy-pink quilt—circa 1984—over my head, and shut out the rest of the world. Just for a little while longer.

That’s not too much to ask.

And I would. If I had anywhere else to hide.

But Nan is the only one who cared enough to call after the story broke. She’s the only one who offered me a place to stay. Mom sent a condolence text. And a “pick better next time” reminder. Dad did . . . well, exactly what I’d expected him to. Shara was overseas, probably getting a tan on some millionaire’s yacht. My own sister hadn’t bothered to even pick up her phone.

Nan had called. Well, actually she’d texted.

Will you Facetime me?

I’m still not sure if she texted first out of consideration that I might not want to talk twenty minutes after my entire life imploded or because she still doesn’t know how to start a video call.

Either way, we were connected within seconds. And three hours later I was on a flight from Johannesburg to Colorado Springs via Frankfurt and Denver. At the airport curb, she’d given me a firm once-over then waved her gnarled fingers and said, “You’ll have to put your own bag in the trunk. I don’t have a doorman anymore.”

After my grandfather died more than fifteen years ago, she moved from her Manhattan high-rise to a hundred-year-old Victorian cottage in downtown Colorado Springs where she’d grown up. She probably has enough money to buy her block and several of the neighboring ones, but she swears she likes the simple life now. Bingo with her friends. Strolls around the block with her dog. Cozy winter evenings in front of her brick fireplace.

Her home has exactly one spare room. Which, until two days ago, belonged only to Bronco.

When she picked me up, she welcomed me with no comment on the Dior sunglasses that I prayed covered my bloodshot eyes and the purpling bruise across my cheekbone. So, I owe Nan every bit of my current sanity—thin as it may be.

I shove back the covers and grumble at the dog. “Come on, boy. Let’s go outside.”

Bronco gives me a low bark as I put my feet on the hardwood floor.

Oof, that’s cold!

I jump back onto the bed and gingerly search for my slippers with my big toe. After a few false starts, I find them and slide my feet into the relative warmth while Bronco sashays his way down the steps and around the corner of the bed.

October in Colorado Springs. At 4:55 a.m.

Outside is going to be brutal. So, I slip a hoodie over my pajamas. The neon tie-dye doesn’t exactly match the autumn colors of the plaid flannel pants that I borrowed from Nan after freezing my first night in town. But I don’t expect to find a pap loitering in the Springs. I barely expect the sidewalks to be out there at this time of day.

Shuffling through the dark house, I listen for any sign that Nan is awake. But the light isn’t on in her room.

Bronco seems to remember that the backyard is off limits thanks to an ongoing fence repair, so he trots through the kitchen, past the petite sofa in the living room, and straight for the front door. His little nails scratch at the bottom of the frame, and only then do I realize that I walked right past his leash on the kitchen wall.

Blame it on the early morning or the way Nan likes to keep all of her blinds closed, but the house is pitch black. Either way, the leash is on the other side of the house, and Bronco is starting to whine. The call of the urgent.

I’ve been there, man. The one-piece bodysuit I had to wear in the last Fantastic Four iteration made everything harder.

I tug on the handle, and the door creaks open, a blast of cold air hitting me square in the face. Bronco makes a break for it. And by break , I mean he lumbers across the small porch and down the two cement steps, sniffing everything in his path. His ears drag into the grass. He probably thinks he’s a real hunter instead of a spoiled, slightly chubby basset hound.

Wrapping my arms across my stomach, I shiver in the dim light of dawn. As Bronco searches out his ideal spot—wandering to the far edge of the front lawn but never making it onto the cracked and bruised sidewalk—I stroll down the cement walkway from Nan’s sunshine-yellow front door.

Historic downtown is silent at this time of day. The century-old homes lining the quiet street are mostly dark except for a few lights here and there. Pools from the streetlights illuminate the endless row of cars parallel parked on the road. Many of these old houses don’t have garages—let alone a designated parking spot.

My condo in LA has round-the-clock valet parking in an underground garage.

Not that I miss it. Or the constant stream of paps hanging out in the bushes across the street. Not that they’re all there for me. Anne Hathaway just bought a place in the building. And rumor has it that Harry Styles may be moving in.

I certainly don’t miss the attention there.

I just . . . I don’t know if I’ll ever get to go back. Except to move out. Not without work.

My eyes burn, and my nose starts to run. Probably from the cold.

“Come on, boy. Let’s go already.”

He doesn’t bother giving me a look as he sniffs into the low hedge that separates Nan’s lawn from the neighbor’s.

Suddenly Bronco’s nose lifts to the air, and he lets out a low growl. I look around quickly, immediately spotting the silhouette of a monster running toward us. The guy is enormous. And the dog yanking on his leash is almost as big. He’s still a couple houses away, but my heart pounds hard.

I’m on the far side of the yard, and before I can start toward Bronco, the ridiculous hound decides to defend his territory. Waddling onto the sidewalk, Bronco faces them and barks loudly.

A low menacing growl responds.

“Bronco, no! Come here, Bronco!” I scream for him to come back to me, but he’s farther away than I thought, and the monster and his beast are almost on top of him.

My heart is in my throat. I should have put him on the leash. Or at least stayed closer to him.

Now he’s about to be eaten by that giant.

And not even Nan would forgive me for that. No way I could forgive myself either.

When my best friend Caro and I started in the industry, she always said, “Protect the money-maker at all costs.” Well, my face isn’t going to earn me any more money if I can’t get a job. So I might as well salvage my current living situation.

I dive for Bronco, scooping him up in my arms and rolling into the strip of grass on the far side of the sidewalk just as the beast bears down on us. I expect to feel his teeth rip into me. Or at least the weight of his body slam into mine.

Instead, I only feel hot, wet breath on my cheek.

“Come on, Fluffy. Give the lady some room.”

I know that voice. It’s gravelly and rough, like he spent an entire day shouting—which he did. But I still recognize it. Even when he’s not calling plays.

I glance up—way up—and immediately see the surprise on Grant Reddington’s face. His free hand is already outstretched, his other wrangling the beast.

“Zoe? I’m sorry! I didn’t see him until we were almost on him, and I had my AirPods in. Here, let me help you up.”

I don’t have much choice in the matter because his hand around my wrist has me on my feet before I can wave him off. Somehow I manage to hold on to Bronco, who is wiggling like he’s fighting for his life.

“Is it . . . I need to set him down.”

Grant looks confused, so I stare pointedly at the behemoth at his knee.

“Oh, yeah.” He squats next to the gray dog—which has to be at least part Great Dane and part horse—and rubs his ears. “Fluffy wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s just curious.”

“Fluffy?” I raise my eyebrows.

He shrugs one shoulder and scratches the muscular side. “I didn’t name him.”

“Mm-hmm.” It’s all I can manage before Bronco practically leaps out of my arms. He glares at Fluffy for half a second before trotting three steps away and finally doing his business.

Grant scrubs a hand down his face and scratches at the stubble on his sharp jawline. The man always seems to have a perfect five o’clock shadow. Even at five in the morning. It’s annoying. “I really am sorry about that,” he says. “Are you all right?”

I take quick inventory, brushing a few yellow leaves off my sweatshirt. “I’ll survive. Not sure I’ll be able to get back to sleep after so much excitement though.”

“ Back to sleep?”

I realize then that Grant’s eyes hold none of the droop of morning. He’s wearing only a long-sleeve T-shirt and basketball shorts. His sneakers are worn. Not the name-brand ones he wears around the facility heading in on game days. Just comfortable, well-worn running shoes.

Unlike me, he’s clearly not in his pajamas to walk his dog.

He looks right at home, even with the streetlight glistening off the sweat beading on his forehead.

“Do you live around here?” I spit out, then immediately want to bite off my own tongue. I’ve got no business asking such things. Moreover, I don’t want to know if he’s one of Nan’s neighbors.

“No.”

He offers nothing more.

Good. I didn’t want to know anything else.

And I’ll keep telling myself that.

“Well, we should get going,” Grant says, tugging on Fluffy’s leash. “Sorry again.”

I nod in response and call for Nan’s dog. “Come on, Bronco.”

Grant pauses mid-stride, one eyebrow raising. “Bronco? Your dog’s name is Bronco? As in the Denver Broncos?” The Fourteeners’ rivals.

I give him a cheeky grin. “I didn’t name him.”