Page 6

Zoe

S o this is what a $200 million, multi-year contract will get you a few miles outside of the Springs. I pull into Grant’s driveway, my mouth hanging open. I probably shouldn’t be impressed. After all, I’ve attended my fair share of parties at mansions in Beverly Hills, even filmed at a real-life castle in Italy. But this house is something else. It’s not overly large, but somehow it fills the massive lawn, which is mowed into a perfect diamond pattern.

I bet Grant isn’t the one responsible for that.

But the man does have good taste. The two-story house looks like it’s been transplanted from a farm in the Midwest to the end of the winding driveway, no neighbors within sight thanks to rows of pine trees. It’s all white siding and a beautiful wrap-around porch dotted with purple and silver Adirondack chairs—naturally. Three dormer windows break up the steep gray roof. Maybe there’s a window seat in one of them, the morning sun falling through, the perfect place to read a script.

Not that I’ll ever find that out. That’s not why I’m here.

But I can’t stop staring. It’s not the house’s size that makes it memorable. It’s that it’s inviting. Down-right welcoming.

None of the mansions I’ve ever been to have felt half so warm. And I haven’t even stepped out of my rental car. Time to change that.

I push the car door open, but it barely budges, so I add my foot to the fight, wrestling against the wind. When it’s finally open far enough, I slip out, and the door slams shut with no assistance from me.

Giving up the fight to smooth down my hair, I square my shoulders, march along a line of pavers, and hop up the three steps to the porch. I stare at the dark blue front door for a long moment, taking a few deep breaths before lifting my hand to knock.

The sound echoes along the porch, but all inside is silent.

I glance over my shoulder to confirm that Grant’s truck hasn’t moved. Still parked right next to my car.

So, I knock again, this time with a little more oomph.

“I’m coming!” The voice calling out from the other side of the door is decidedly female. And sounds terribly young. Checking over my shoulder one more time, I make sure there’s not an extra car in the driveway.

There’s not. Though it could be behind one of the three garage doors.

Suddenly the door flies inward, and I make eye contact with a blond girl who looks like she’s in middle school. Her mouth drops open wide, eyes filled with shock. But before I can say anything, the door slams in my face and the girl has a full-on meltdown on the other side.

She’s squealing, little feet stomping on the floor.

This is a first. Fans have had all sorts of reactions to meeting me, but I’ve never been left on the outside of a door without so much as an introduction.

Hands on my hips, I turn side to side, not quite sure what my next step should be.

Yeah, this is definitely a first.

Suddenly heavy footfalls stomp through the house, stopping on the other side. A deep voice says something I can’t understand, and then the door swings open again. Grant stands there in workout shorts and a Fourteeners T-shirt, his lip curled and eyes half closed.

“Zoe Peebles,” he grumbles. “At my home.”

The girl at his elbow squeals again, her hands covering her face as she does a little dance of joy. “I can’t believe it’s you! You’re here! I love your movies! I’m your biggest fan!”

I push away a truckload of questions about who the girl is and why she’s at Grant’s house. Giving her a smile she may or may not be able to see through her fingers, I bow my head slightly. “Lovely to meet you . . .”

Where most of my fans fill in their names, this mini beauty just trembles with glee, finally dropping her hands far enough to show off sparkling blue eyes. That refuse to blink.

“Zoe, this is Kenna. Kenna, this is Zoe.”

“I know who she is. Everyone in the world knows who she is, Uncle Grant.”

Ahhh. Uncle . Uncle? When I glance at the uncle in question, he frowns at me as though he’s forgotten that he’s the one who refused to help a damsel in distress.

Shifting my gaze back to Kenna, I flash her a deeper grin. “Well, I don’t know about that, but I’m delighted to meet a fan.”

“Uncle Grant and I just watched Fantastic Four last night. You’re so good in it!”

I squint at him. “You watched my movie.”

“Kenna wanted to.”

“No. You’re the one who said we should watch it. You said it’s your favorite superhero movie.”

“Oh, really?” I can’t keep the smugness out of my voice, and Grant Reddington—in all of his future Hall of Fame glory—rolls his eyes and quickly changes the subject.

“How’d you find out where I live?”

“I . . . um . . . asked around.”

His scowl tugs at the corners of his mouth as he scratches his chin. “Like who?”

“Like . . .” I shrug. “Maybe Dolores.”

“In the front office? In the front office of my team?”

“Well, technically it’s my dad’s team.”

He steps toward me, towering over me and forcing me to look up. Way up. “She wouldn’t do that.”

He doesn’t know me very well if he thinks I give up that easily. “Maybe she’s a fan, and her son also happens to like my character in Fantastic Four . And now maybe he owns a signed action figure.”

“You bribed Dolores Jones into giving up my address?”

I stare at the beams on the underside of the porch and shake my head. “I’m not admitting anything. Dolores is a fine, upstanding woman of impeccable character.”

Suddenly Grant looks over my head. “How’d you get into my neighborhood?” He stares hard at the end of the drive, like the guy from the booth at the gated entrance to the community will be running to catch me any minute now.

I shrug with a smile. “What can I say? The security guard is a fan too.”

“Of yours,” Grant grumbles. “Clearly not mine.”

“Ignore him,” Kenna says, pushing her uncle’s arm and moving him exactly zero inches. “He’s just grumpy because he was taking a nap. He doesn’t wake up happy.” Then her eyes light up. “Can you come in? And stay? Denise made blueberry muffins.”

“I’d be delighted.” I follow her inside, right past Mr. Grumpy, whose whole body seems to be vibrating. Giving a little sniff, I mean to rub it in that his niece clearly likes me better than him. But instead, I pick up all sorts of woodsy, clean scents. Like mountain air and fresh pine.

He has no business being any more attractive than his looks.

At least those will fade. Eventually.

I shake off this new bit of information about him and march closely behind Kenna through the grand foyer with its vaulted ceiling and hardwood floors.

I honestly expected his home décor to feature a series of framed jerseys in purple and silver. Maybe a signed and framed football from Joe Montana or Peyton Manning. But the only nod to the Colorado Fourteeners is a tasteful painting of a snow-capped Pikes Peak. The team is named for the string of peaks in the Rockies that all reach over fourteen thousand feet, and the image somehow feels like a nod to that.

I glance away from the painting’s smooth brush strokes just in time to catch Grant watching me, a dozen questions flashing through his eyes. Probably foremost—what am I doing here?

He should know. And if he’s already forgotten, I’ll be more than happy to remind him.

But before I can do that, Kenna leads me into the kitchen—a chef’s dream. Wooden cabinets all the way to the ceiling in white with slate blue along the bottom cover an entire wall. The white and gray quartz counters are interrupted only by a six-burner gas range. And the island is large enough to seat half the team.

Kenna hops on to one of the gray padded stools on the far side of the counter and motions for me to sit on the one next to her before eyeing her uncle with a face that’s all innocence.

“Go ahead,” he mumbles. “Sit down. Let me serve you both.”

Before I can decide if he’s serious, Kenna leans close to my shoulder and stage whispers, “He thinks he’s being funny.”

“I am funny,” he grouches, and I can’t argue.

In short order, he pulls out three small plates and places an overflowing blueberry muffin on each. The cinnamon-and-sugar topping smells sweeter than sin, and I close my eyes to let it fill me as Grant pushes a plate in my direction. Let’s just call this one more thing I don’t need to tell my trainer about.

If I ever get back to see her.

When I open my eyes, Kenna is sitting still as a statue, unblinking eyes boring into me as though she’ll be able to read all of my secrets. “Are you and my uncle friends?”

I glance at the uncle in question as he conveniently shoves half of his muffin into his mouth.

“Yep. We’ve known each other for. . .” I look up toward the wrought iron lights hanging over the counter. “Years.”

Known is way too strong of a word, but I’m determined to change that.

“Uncle Grant,” she leans heavily on his name. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We just recently reconnected,” he quickly clarifies.

Kenna seems satisfied, but I can’t help but feel a little guilty for getting him in trouble. “So, how long have you been staying with your uncle?” I tear off a bite of my muffin and nearly groan as it lands on my tongue, the tang of the berries enhancing the sweetness of the bread and topping. I’m not usually one for sweets, but I’d eat one of these every day. If I was capable of baking anything except burnt toast.

“Thirteen days. My mom is deployed.” Kenna’s little voice makes me jump, but I nod quickly to let her know I’m listening. “She’s in the Navy.”

“Oh.” I blink a few times before leaning in closer. “I’m sorry. That must be hard. I bet you really miss her.”

She nods, studying her muffin as she tears it apart but doesn’t put any of it in her mouth. “I think about her all the time. But I guess Uncle Grant is okay.”

I look up in time to see the surprise written in his raised eyebrows. His mouth opens and closes a few times, but no sound comes out. Maybe this is the first time he’s heard anything remotely affirming. Not unusual for a young teen girl.

When I was around Kenna’s age, I was pretty much on my own. My mom—a recent divorcée—had given up pretending she wanted to be part of my life and dumped me with the housekeeper to jet off to the Mediterranean and stay on whoever’s yacht she could find a bed.

Back then, I would have given my first-generation iPhone to have a real parental figure who cared enough to take me in.

It doesn’t take much to see that Grant cares. Even if he looks uncertain with his role, his features tight as he watches his niece closely. It can’t be easy to have a teenager and all her emotions and hormones dropped into your home. Especially a home that’s based on a rigid NFL schedule.

But there’s a tenderness in his gaze on her that makes me think they’re going to be all right.

“Just okay?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. “If he keeps providing muffins like this, I’d be tempted to move in.”

A water bottle to his lips, Grants lets out a snort that sounds painful and sprays water across the counter. Kenna laughs out loud, and I keep my focus on her, refusing to risk meeting his gaze.

“I mean, he’s nice and all. He’s just always thinking about football.”

Giving her an exaggerated frown, I sigh. “Yeah, that would be hard. Although that is his job—and it does keep a roof over your head. There must be something you like about being here.”

“Well, I guess he has pretty good taste in movies. But he doesn’t know anything about theater or acting.”

I sit up a little straighter, while he mumbles something about football practice since he was seven.

“Is that something you’re interested in? Acting?”

Kenna’s eyes flash bright and she swivels on her stool to look right into my face. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do!”

I know that feeling.

“There’s a . . . um . . .” Her smile falters as her face turns tight. “Never mind. It’ll never happen.”

Grant slips around the end of the island and sits on Kenna’s other side. “What is it, kiddo?”

She pokes her muffin again, her lips working back and forth as though she’s trying to remember the words of a script. “There’s an audition for the school musical, and I want the lead.”

“That’s great!” Grant claps his hands just like when he’s breaking a huddle. “You’re sure to get the part.”

With a quick shake of her head, Kenna says, “Some of the girls have been in drama for years. But we didn’t have it at my old school. The girls in my class said I shouldn’t even bother auditioning.”

Grant’s confidence seems to leak out of him as he rests one hand on the back of Kenna’s stool and the other on the countertop. He’s so assured in most areas of his life—but this is obviously something he’s never had to deal with. Theater. And teenage girls.

Catching his eye, I lift a shoulder, silently asking permission to step in. He gives me a subtle nod.

“Sounds to me like they might be afraid of a little competition.” Nudging my knee against hers earns me a little smile. “Maybe I could help you prepare for your audition. I mean, if you wanted.”

“Are you serious?” A rocket’s got nothing on Kenna as she shoots out of her seat. “Really? Really?”

“If it’s okay with your uncle.”

Kenna flings her arms around his neck, all the convincing he seems to need.