Page 5

Grant

I ’m not taking the same route that I have the last two mornings for any particular reason. It’s just the path with the best sidewalks and most streetlights.

And I can’t afford to twist an ankle on my morning run.

Guster yanks on his leash. Smart mutt probably knows that I’m trying to rationalize this particular course. And hoping for at least a passing glance of Zoe Peebles.

Even in her oversized flannel pants and would-be cape, that woman is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Sure, I’ve caught a few of her movies over the years. And she’s pretty on screen—all dolled up in her costumes, hair and makeup done. And she wears a cocktail dress at the team Christmas parties better than anyone else there.

But I didn’t know how beautiful she could be until I saw her in the moonlight, not a stitch of makeup on, chasing that ear-dragging hound.

I can’t help but fight a smile as I round the corner onto Zoe’s street, guiding Guster. He stops to smell something along a white picket fence, and I give him a gentle tug.

“Come on, boy.”

He is neither impressed nor compelled to give up his investigation. His black nose roots around in the grass at the base of the fence, probably because he can’t see through the wiry gray fur falling over his eyes.

I jog in place for a few seconds, letting him continue, and take the opportunity to glance down the road. From this distance I can see a little bit of movement half of the long block away, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s Zoe and the dog who must not be named or someone else out at this absurd hour. Only someone who’s lost their mind ventures out at this time of the morning.

Or someone else with a dog.

I’ve never understood how dogs can be so excited to go for a run before the sun even cracks the horizon. Then again, I’ve never been locked up in a cage.

But I do feel like Guster is holding me hostage here at a completely dark two-story house with more scrolling and details than a wedding cake.

I give his leash a little tug, but he isn’t budging. “Come on,” I coax in my most convincing voice. “If we miss Zoe because you’re nosy, I’ll make sure all the other dogs get adopted before you.”

The old mutt doesn’t even pretend to look up at me.

I guess I could carry him like I did Rico, though Guster looks like a wiggler. And is about ten times the size of the Chihuahua.

“Come on. Haven’t you ever met a pretty lady and wanted to see her again?”

Guster shoots me a full side-eye but finally steers himself in the right direction half a second before I scoop him up.

“Good boy,” I whisper, silently promising him that I’ll tell everyone at the shelter that he deserves a special treat.

But as we jog toward Zoe’s place—well, Mrs. Peebles’s—there’s no sign of anyone in the yard of the pale blue bungalow. No lights in the windows. No sound of that low-lying dog.

I instinctively slow down until Guster is the one pulling me. Not because I want to talk with Zoe or anything.

But because I’d expected her to be here.

And because her wild morning hair is one of the most attractive styles I’ve ever seen her sport.

The thought makes me run my free hand through my own morning mop. I didn’t even bother to glance in the mirror while brushing my teeth this morning. It could be something extra special.

Not that it matters. Zoe is clearly still in bed. As most sane people are.

Not that her being around would change when I fix my hair.

Right. Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, Red.

I’ve fallen for cheaper lies.

As we pass the walkway that divides Mrs. Peebles’s lawn and lead toward the bright yellow front door, I pick up speed, suddenly ready to return Guster to the shelter and get home to see Kenna off before I head to the facility.

My tennis shoes slap the cement, drowning out the rustling leaves that dance in the gutter. I take deep breaths, focusing on the rhythm.

In. Out. In. Ou—

“Gra-ant!”

The sound of my name stops me in my tracks, but Guster isn’t as quick to halt, and he jerks me forward a few steps before I can turn around to find Zoe Peebles standing there. In all her glory.

Well, standing is a stretch. She’s hunched over, bent at the waist, hands on her knees, and breathing raggedly. Her dark hair is hanging around either side of her face, and the blanket draped over her arms is nearly dragging on the ground behind feathery purple slippers that surely cost the lives of a Muppet or two.

“Geez,” she wheezes, waving her hand to indicate that she’s got more to add.

I have to bite the corner of my lip to keep from smiling. This is what I was looking forward to.

Not that I would ever admit it to a soul.

Sucking in more air, she pushes herself up. “I’m going to blame this on the altitude. My trainer would be mortified that I couldn’t chase you for more than a few houses without almost passing out.”

“You were chasing me?”

Something flashes in her eyes, and her spine suddenly turns to rebar. “No. Of course not.”

“I mean, that’s not what you just said. And you were clearly calling my name. How exactly do you define chasing?”

“It doesn’t matter.” But as she waves away the thought, her gaze lands somewhere near my hip. “Exactly how many dogs do you own?”

With a quick shake of my head, I tell her the truth. “None.”

Her hands land back on her hips, her eyes narrowing. “Are you kidnapping dogs so you have an excuse to run by Nan’s house?” With a saucy cock of her head, she purses her plump lips to the side. “Now who’s chasing who?”

“I am not kidnapping dogs.” I can’t keep in a snort though.

“Well, really, until I see proof . . .”

“What? You’re going to tell your social media followers that I’m a pet thief?”

She tilts her head to the other side, and the breeze tugs at her unruly waves. “Let’s just say that my opinion of you will be very much in question.”

“As opposed to yesterday when it was . . .”

“Solidly mediocre.”

Forget another snort. This time I let out a full belly laugh because I’m pretty sure she’s kidding. At least I hope she is. Because suddenly her opinion of me matters. For absolutely zero reason except that her smile somehow lights up the pre-sunrise sidewalk.

Her hands on her hips suggest she’s still waiting for an explanation, so when I finally pull myself together, I nod toward Guster. “He’s a rescue dog from Pike’s Animal Shelter. It’s a couple miles down the road.”

“And the others?” Her face contorts with a raised eyebrow, and I can read every shred of skepticism on her face. This is why she’s an actress. This is why her movies have brought in hundreds of millions of dollars. I can’t look away. I don’t want to.

“Also rescues. I swing by when I’m in town and pick one to join me on my morning run.”

Something in her eyes softens, though her face remains the picture of cynicism. “Likely story.” A crack breaks through, and she fights a smile.

“Where is your—your—thug this morning?”

“ Bronco ?“ She puts a little extra mustard on the word. “A thug?” Light and joy beam from her, floating out on the high notes of her giggle. “He’s more like a drooling dental patient still high on laughing gas who’s searching for a snack.”

Okay. That’s probably a more apt description.

“Bronco is still inside. He decided to sleep in this morning.”

Which doesn’t explain why she’s prancing around the neighborhood like Dracula with bad fashion sense, slinging that fuzzy brown monstrosity around her like a cape from the ’70s.

“So, you were chasing me.”

She pokes one finger out from under her wrap. “Correction. I was checking on the state of a potentially stolen dog. If you think about it, I’m kind of a superhero to the puppy population.”

“Nice try, Peebles. I’m not buying it.”

She rolls her eyes, lets out a little puff between tight lips. “I need your help.”

The simple statement incites a war in my chest. One side eager to rescue her, the other immediately on defense. Some kids may consider me a role model, but I’m no one’s hero. And there’s no way I can save Zoe from whatever trouble she’s in. I’ve seen the tabloids, heard the rumors. They’re hard to miss in every check-out lane at the grocery store.

But they can’t be true. At least not all of them.

Zoe and I aren’t exactly friends, but I’ve known her in passing since I was drafted. And everything I know about her is that she is not that woman. She’s not someone who would purposefully break up a marriage—or any relationship for that matter.

But just because I don’t believe the headlines doesn’t mean I need to get involved in her life. Or let her into mine. I have enough to focus on with Kenna under my roof. Not to mention the rest of the season ahead.

Besides, I’ve seen my name in tabloids before. Stories I didn’t want and sure didn’t appreciate. That’s what happens when you spend time with the wrong woman.

As if that isn’t reason enough, Jordan Jenkins, the team’s PR director, reminded every single guy on the team not to get involved with or make a comment about Zoe.

Her life is completely separate from the Colorado Fourteeners. No matter who her dad is.

I don’t need another reason to pass. But the words are surprisingly hard to get out. “I’m—It’s—Maybe—It’s probably not a good idea.”

As her eyebrows pinch together, I’ve never wanted a dog to take off running more than I do in this moment. Guster doesn’t move.

Though, if he did, I have a feeling Zoe and her Muppet slippers might chase us down, even with her lack of high-altitude training.

“I need you to help me with an audition.”

“I have absolutely no acting skills.”

“I know that.”

Ouch. “You don’t have to sound so sure about it.”

She rolls her eyes as she plasters on a highly practiced smile that still looks almost real. Yep. She doesn’t need my help. She knows how to play a role.

“It’s based on the true story of a high school football team, and their coaches were killed in an accident, so—”

“Their teacher steps in and takes them to the Texas State Championship.”

Eyes growing wide, she nods. “You know the story?”

“I read the book when I was a kid. They’re making it into a movie?”

“And the script is getting all sorts of award buzz.”

“But aren’t you out of Hollywood?”

The light in her eyes dims, and I want to bite off my own tongue. I hadn’t meant that to come out so callous.

I watch the steel seep through her, squaring her shoulders, straightening her posture, and lifting her chin. She swallows audibly before whispering, “Not if I can help it.”

That side of the war in me wants to agree to anything she needs. Instead, I blurt out, “It’s probably not a good idea. After all, your dad signs my paychecks.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Okay, that’s true. The team’s CFO, Bernie Franks, signs them. But still. “The principle remains.”

“What my dad doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“But I’ll know. And I don’t feel great about lying to your dad.”

“You think he’s going to ask you if you’re showing his daughter how to throw a football?”

No. But there is such a thing as a lie of omission. And worrying about that means my mind can’t be one hundred percent on the game. And I have the literal scars to prove what happens when I let myself get distracted.

“Is this about the tabloids?” Her eyes narrow for a second. “The stories aren’t really true.”

“I didn’t think they were.”

She suddenly looks like a stiff wind could knock her over, and her mouth opens and closes a few times, though no sound manages to escape. Finally, she whispers, “You didn’t?”

“Why would I?”

One of her shoulders lifts beneath the blanket-cape. “No one else has had a hard time believing them.”

“Then no one else has paid attention. I needed about three minutes to watch you with the waitstaff at last year’s Christmas party to know you don’t have a malicious bone in your body.”

Suddenly the pink in her cheeks deepens, spreading all the way down her neck. “I wouldn’t go that far. I had some very malicious thoughts about Joe Kellyn—Marissa too—after that night at the restaurant.”

“Maybe you get a pass this time.” I can’t bite back a grin.

“I may not have known he was married.”

That truth lands like a left hook.

“But I should have asked around. It was stupid of me. And I ended up hurting someone I don’t even know.” Zoe digs her toe into a crack in the sidewalk.

All I can think to say is, “None of us should be judged on our worst mistakes. If we are, I’m in deep trouble.”

“Well, thanks, I guess. I just didn’t want you to think the worst of me.”

I could never. “I still can’t help you.”

“You’re sure?”

Guster suddenly tugs on his leash, and we’re finally on the same page. “I’ve got to go,” I say as I trot away. Zoe’s face is mixture of confusion and hurt, and I call out once more before turning my back to her. “I’m sorry.”