Undeniably You

Chapter One

June 3rd, 2010

PALO ALTO

Shit! It’s everywhere and I’ve only been here for three hours. Thank God it’s contained to the hardwood floors. I scramble to find a trash bag in the pantry as my phone chimes. Sliding it out from the back pocket of my short denim shorts, I swipe my finger across the screen.

“Hello?”

“Sydney?” An unfamiliar woman’s voice sounds.

“Yes,” I confirm with the phone pinched between my ear and shoulder as I peel open the trash bag.

“It’s Kimberly from Dr. Abbott’s office returning your phone call.”

As I walk past the glass French doors to the patio, I’m met with two blue-grey eyes on the other side following my every move. Squinting and seething with contempt, I continue to the first steaming pile of shit.

“Oh, yes, thank you for calling me back. I’m house and dog sitting for my uncle and aunt, Trevor and Elizabeth Worthington. Their dog … uh—”

“Swarley.”

“Yes, Swarley has been shi—I mean pooping everywhere since they left early this morning.”

“He might be nervous or apprehensive about them leaving. Dogs sense more than we realize. They’re much smarter than we give them credit for being.”

Yeah, this dog is real freaking smart!

“Anyway, Dr. Abbott has an opening at one o’clock if you’d like to bring Swarley in just to make sure it’s nothing serious.”

The ripe sewer stench wafting near my nose forces me to hold my breath as I rush to glove my hand in paper towels and wipe up the mess.

“One, thanks. See you then.” The mordacious smell steals my voice.

**

House sitting is a great interim job, especially for someone with a bachelor’s degree in art history. Pet sitting … not so glamorous, but it comes with the territory. My dream of becoming a museum curator is going to be a long journey. It’s virtually impossible to get an offer without a master’s degree, and really, a PhD is preferred—especially among the larger, more prestigious museums. Feeling broke and drowning in debt since graduation, I’ve decided to work a few years before completing my schooling. However, if I continue to get into this sort of “shit,” I may decide to sell my body instead of my time.

The first few jobs I took were in the Midwest, within driving distance from where I grew up in Rock Island, Illinois. After I banked some cash, I got my passport and applied for house sitting positions abroad. Over the past year I’ve traveled to Rio De Janeiro, Qatar, Ireland, Australia, and the UK. I visit every museum I can and dream of someday being the lucky person in charge of overseeing everything. It’s a long shot at best, but a girl can hope.

When Avery took a job in L.A. as a massage therapist, I decided to look for something on the West Coast so we could see each other during the summer. As fate would have it, our dad’s sister and her husband, who live in Palo Alto, decided to travel Europe in June. They were thrilled to hear that I was available to house-sit for them and watch their new dog. It’s a five and a half hour drive from L.A., but at least Avery and I are in the same time zone.

“Get in, Swarley!” I hold open the back door to Elizabeth and Trevor’s white Escalade.

Their two-year-old Weimaraner is infuriating, and we’ve known each other for less than twenty-four hours. It’s going to be a long month.

I look at the time on my phone: 12:45 p.m.

“Ugh! You stubborn mutt, get in.” I reach down and bear-hug his body, praying nothing squirts out of his backside as I thrust him into the backseat. After another five minutes of wrestling around trying to thread the seat belt through his harness loop, we’re off to the vet.

I notice two other cars in the parking lot, so hopefully we won’t have to wait long. The instant I unfasten Swarley, he bolts out of the backseat attempting to rip my arm off as the leash tourniquets around my wrist.

“Swarley! Dammit, stop!” He drags me through the grass along the side of the building. I think he’s chasing a squirrel, or a bird. Hell, he could be chasing his tail for all I know. I’m too busy trying to avoid all the steamy land mines. What happened to dog shit pick up etiquette?

Swarley stops to lift his leg to a tree, giving me a reprieve. Digging the embedded leash out of my skin, I choke up on it about an inch from strangling his neck.

“Let’s go!” I yank his leash.

Approaching the door, my face wrinkles. I’m not sure if I’m smelling something new or if the pungent odor from earlier this morning is still lingering in my nose. Grabbing the door handle to steady myself, I lift my right foot to inspect the bottom of my shoe. Clean. I lift the left.

“Shit!”

Literally, all over the bottom of my sandal. Swarley pulls on the leash, going spastic, so I wriggle my sandal off and take him inside.

“Swarley!” The woman behind the desk cheers as she jumps up and greets us, well … him.

“You must be Sydney. I’m Kimberly, we talked on the phone.”

“Yes, hi.” I smile.

“Come on back. Dr. Abbott is just finishing up. He shouldn’t be too long.” Kimberly escorts us to an exam room. “Have a seat. I’ll get Swarley weighed and bring him back in.”

She leads him away while I sit in a small armchair by the window overlooking the dump yard. Glancing down at my feet, I realize how ridiculous I look with only one sandal. Will I look better without shoes? No shoes says I’m one of those weird dirty people who never wears shoes. One shoe says I either lost my other shoe or stepped in dog crap. Either explanation is feasible. After all, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve driven down the street and seen just one shoe in the middle of the road. It’s solid evidence that there is an entire population of people running around with only one shoe. I assume these are bikers or motorcyclists losing their shoes. It’s too implausible that I brought Swarley to the vet on a Harley or Schwinn, so I think I’ll stick with Option B: shit happens.

“Here we go,” Kimberly announces while guiding Swarley back into the room.

Following her through the door is Dr. Hottie Vet. A thick head of dark hair brushes past his brows just above rich, light brown eyes that crinkle at the corners matching his bright friendly smile. Perfect-fitting black pants hang from his tall, lean frame. The light gray button-down shirt under his white lab coat exposes a teasing of dark chest hair where the top buttons are left casually open. Swarley gives a kind greeting to his crotch while the vet offers his hand to me.

“Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Abbott … or … Dane.” His long fingers are warm and his grip is nervously firm.

“Sydney, and I think you already know—” I try to hide my grin, gesturing to Swarley who continues to give a rude sniffing to Dr. Abbott’s crotch.

“Swarley. Yes, I’ve been seeing him since he was just a pup.”

Swarley’s magnetic attraction to a certain crotch is distracting. Although he’s not my dog, and I’m sure Dr. Abbott is used to it, I feel the need to explain his behavior.

“He must think you have a big piece of meat in there.”

The words come out of my mouth and my brain—that apparently has a two-second delay—catches up as I turn crimson. Dr. Abbott is discernibly embarrassed by my comment because the shade of his face mirrors mine while he averts his eyes to the chart he’s holding. Kimberly coughs and turns her back to us. It’s obvious she’s trying to stifle her reaction as well.

“Oh my God! I didn’t mean … or what I meant—” Swarley has diarrhea of the ass and I have diarrhea of the mouth. Could this day get any worse?

“Sydney, it’s fine,” he recovers with quick composure. “How long has Swarley been having—” He pauses and I notice he’s looking at my feet.

Yes, this day just got worse. I wiggle my toes then cover my barefoot with the one that has a sandal.

Dr. Abbott smirks and his eyes meet mine. He exudes a subtle shyness that I’m guessing is masked by his white-coat authority and the Dr. before his name.

“When did Swarley start having diarrhea?” he asks with a genuine smile.

“This morning. I arrived late last night, but I didn’t meet Swarley until early this morning when Elizabeth and Trevor left. They didn’t mention him having any issues, so I assume it’s just been today.”

“Did you bring in a stool sample?” he questions, jotting some notes on the chart.

“Um, no. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m going to do a quick exam, but it’s most likely just a case of nerves and anxiety. To my knowledge he’s usually on a strict feeding schedule so I’m doubtful it’s anything that he’s eaten.”

I nod and observe as Dr. Abbott guides Swarley onto a hydraulic lift table. Kimberly puts him in headlock-type hold while the good doctor does his exam.

“Everything looks fine. Make sure he has water and keep him off food until morning. Maybe by then he’ll be settled. If it persists or gets worse, give the office a call. In fact, I could stop by on my jog in the morning and see how he’s doing.”

Kimberly raises an eyebrow in his direction. He’s tapping his pen on the chart.

“Oh, that’s not … necessary. I mean, I’ll just call if there’s an issue. No need to go out of your way.”

“It’s not really. Actually, I jog by there every morning. I only live a few blocks away.”

He runs his fingers through his hair and looks down at his feet shifting his weight from one to the other. Holy crap! He’s flirting with me and Kimberly is so onto him.

“If you have time, but really, don’t go out of your way.” I smile as I stand.

He glances at my feet again. I bend my knee and hide my barefoot behind my other leg as I shrug my shoulders.

“Stepped in shi—poop outside.”

“Oh, where’d you leave it?”

“Outside.”

“Kimberly will finish up the paperwork and bill the Worthington’s account. I’ll get your shoe cleaned off.”

“What? No!”

He holds up his hand and shakes his head. “I insist. It’s the least I can do. I think you have your hands pretty full with this guy.” He scratches Swarley behind his ears. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He leaves and I look at Kimberly as she fills out some paperwork. “Is Dr. Abbott this nice to everyone?”

She grins but doesn’t look up. “Nice? Yes. But if you’re asking if he routinely cleans shit off shoes? No.”

Kimberly tucks her chin-length auburn hair behind her ear. She looks about forty, but I’m not the best judge of age.

“If your next question is whether or not Dr. Abbott is married, the answer is no.”

Now I’m officially uncomfortable and just as anxious as this spastic dog to get out of here.

“That’s interesting, but I wasn’t going to ask. I don’t live around here and I’m leaving in a month. Trust me, I’m not looking for—” My thoughts trail off. Looking for what? Romance? A date? Sex?

“Suit yourself. But he’d be quite the catch.”

The nervous tension is building. This trip is about Swarley, not finding a fix for my nonexistent social life. I twirl my long, dark brown hair around my finger as Dr. Abbott returns with my sandal.

“Good as new.” He hands it to me.

“Thanks, uh … it really wasn’t necessary, but thanks, Dr. Abbott.” I bend down and slip it on. Standing up, I notice Mr. Quite the Catch is looking at me, but not at my eyes.

I clear my throat and his gaze finds mine again. “Oh, um, my pleasure, and call me Dane. Until tomorrow.” He nods and steps aside.

Swarley wastes no time dragging me back to the waiting room. Before I push open the door, I glance back and wave.

“Thanks again, bye.”

We pull out of the parking lot, my mind reeling. “Until tomorrow.” Who says that?

**

Glancing at the clock in the kitchen, I realize it’s been over five hours since Swarley has had the squirts. He’s resting on his plush I-am-the-most-spoiled-dog-in-the-world bed in front of the coffee table in the living room. Elizabeth and Trevor don’t have any children and it shows in their immaculately kept house. It’s spacious, but not overwhelming like a few that I’ve stayed in. The main floor has an open foyer with a formal dining room on one side and an office on the other. All the floors are hardwood or tile, with large traditional wool rugs in each room.

The dark earth-tone walls are nothing like what I remember in our house when I was younger. Theirs lacks the artistic crayon and marker masterpieces etched on the lower half. The crisp white, wide trim and arched doorways are absent of dents and scratches from collisions with toys with wheels and metal parts.

At the back of the house is a kitchen and great room combination that overlooks my favorite part of the whole house—a mammoth deck and a large rectangular swimming pool. This is not an average deck. There is a hot tub on one side and a pergola-covered outdoor bar area with a large stainless-steel grill and stone-covered pizza oven on the other.

Avery is going to freak when she comes to visit. This is our first time at Elizabeth and Trevor’s new house here in Palo Alto. It’s also my first time housesitting for family. I can already see us lounging by the pool, sipping margaritas, and listening to music flowing from the outdoor speakers.

It’s nearly four o’clock. I open the refrigerator door to get some iced tea and the doorbell chimes. Making my way to the entry, I see through the daylight windows a guy with short, golden blonde hair standing with his hands shoved in his khaki cargo shorts pockets. He’s wearing a red Stanford T-shirt that looks like it’s a size too small, but the way it hugs his defined arms and chest, I find it difficult to wish it were the correct size.

I’m not expecting anyone today, but I have a vague memory of something about a pool guy coming on Wednesday. I thought it was next week, but I could be wrong.

Opening the door, the most spectacular blue eyes framed in long lashes suck the air right out of my lungs.

“Hi,” I whisper, unable to find my full voice.

“Hi.” He drags the word out into two long, silky syllables. Eyes of iridescent blue oceans with the intensity of a brilliantly cut sapphire and a few specks of soft summer forget-me-nots travel the full length of my body.

My skin tingles and I’m hyperaware of how short my faded denim shorts really are, and I can’t remember what color my bra is under my fitted white tank, but I don’t think it’s white. I feel naked under his gaze as he grazes his perfect white teeth over his bottom lip eliciting an immediate flushing of my skin and a little lightheadedness. I’m a voodoo doll and with one look he’s working his sexual black magic on me.

Taking a slow exaggerated swallow, I close my eyes and shake my head.

“You must be … uh … Aaron?” I cross my arms over my chest because his sultry look has my nipples at attention.

Head cocked to the side, his bold gaze takes an encore trip down and back up the entire length of my body.

“The pool guy, Aaron, right?” His calculated silence drives me crazy.

He gives me a slow nod. “The pool guy.”

“I’ll have to look at the schedule, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be here until next Wednesday.” I fiddle with my hair and internally scold myself for my breathy voice and school-girl gaga gaze.

He shrugs and flashes me an innocent boyish grin. “I guess I should come back next week then, or I could just check out the pool now.”

Mirroring his casual attitude, I shrug my shoulders. “That’s fine. If it’s not too soon. You’re the expert.”

Stepping back, I gesture for him to come in. His whole face is one big grin.

“Don’t you need anything from your truck?”

He walks past me and I look out front to the paved stone circle drive. Parked at the end of the walk is a black Toyota 4Runner.

“Don’t you drive a company vehicle?” Without turning back, he walks toward the kitchen to the deck like he owns the place. “The supplies are probably out back and the pool guy van broke down,” his voice echoes.

Shutting the door, I pause a moment and shake my head. “Probably out back? Pool guy van?”

Out the back window I see his flip-flops on the deck. As he walks toward the pool house, he shrugs off his shirt in one smooth motion.

Oh. Sweet. Hell.

What is it with the guys here in Palo Alto? They don’t grow them like this where I’m from. Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I call Avery but press End right away.

“No, better yet,” I whisper to myself with a sly smile pulling at my lips.

When Aaron comes out with the long-handled pool skimmer, I take a picture of him and send it to Avery.

2 words: Pool Guy – 3 words: Life is Good

A short two seconds pass before my phone vibrates with a text.

NFW!

I laugh then text back.

Way!

My phone rings Beyonce’s “Single Ladies,” which is fitting for my party-loving sister.

“Jealous?” I answer.

“Sam! Oh my God. Pool guys do not look like that in real life. Is this a joke?” Her enthusiastic shriek pierces my ears.

Aaron walks with slow calculated moves around the pool running the skimmer through the water. Ironically, when I was out earlier the water looked clear, pristine, and free of bugs and leaves.

“I don’t think so, but it might be. He’s not really doing anything. Shouldn’t he be checking the chemicals or changing a filter or something like that?”

Avery snorts. “How should I know? I live in an apartment building with a pool guy that looks like Shamu. I go out of my way not to watch what he’s doing. Tell him you think there’s a slimy film on the bottom of the pool.”

“What? Why?”

“Duh … so he has to get in and check it out.”

As Aaron rounds the corner of the pool, he looks up and smiles at me. I make a quick retreat away from the window.

“Uh, I don’t think he brought his swim trunks.”

“And?” Avery questions in her duh tone.

“And he’s not going to jump into the pool fully clothed.”

“Or—”

“Or naked.”

“Ugh, my next client is here. You’ll have to fill me in later. And by the way, I marked off my schedule for a few days starting next Friday so I can drive up and stay with you.”

“Great! You’re going to love this place. Talk to you later.”

I pour a glass of iced tea and start to walk toward the deck. Then I turn around and pour another glass. “Hospitality is a good thing,” I tell myself, needing only to convince the rational part of my brain.

“Tea?” I offer, walking over to the pool.

Aaron sets the skimmer net along the side of the pool.

“Thank you.” The smirk on his face is suspicious and makes me feel like I’m missing some inside joke. He takes the glass from me and I move past him to get a closer look at the pool because I can’t look at him without his shirt and not break into a sweat.

“What are you skimming?”

“Nothing really. I’m stirring the water,” he says matter-of-factly. This guy is not for real. What does he mean by “stirring the water?” He’s up to something. It’s obvious why Aunt Elizabeth hired him. She must properly clean the pool after he leaves so Trevor doesn’t get suspicious and fire his ass … a very fine ass I will confess.

“And why is it you need to stir the water?” I turn toward him and my eyes dart straight to his broad muscular chest and well-defined abs all kissed by the sun. Jeez, he’s too perfect and I’m … something. Distracted? Mentally lethargic? Crazy? Horny? BINGO!

“So there’s an even consistency of chemicals when I test the water.”

My mouth is agape and I cannot stop looking at him. He bends down to physically capture my attention. Shit! I show no shame staring at his bare chest.

“Hello?” he says, forcing my eyes back to his.

Shaking the inappropriate thoughts from my head, I take a quick sip of my drink to mask my embarrassment.

“Do I need to put my shirt back on?”

I choke on my tea. “No—” I can’t stop coughing. “I mean—” Clearing my throat, I notice his cocky smile. “Put your shirt on or leave it off. Why would I care?”

God, Sydney, could you be a bigger disaster today? The flap of the dog door distracts me. Swarley leaps down the deck stairs. Aaron hunches down like a lineman in anticipation of his overzealous greeting. The problem is, as Swarley races closer I realize he’s not aiming for Aaron. He’s aiming for—

“Oh shit!” I’m catapulted backwards into the pool.

My body makes its descent to the bottom while I open my eyes to see the blurry magnification of Mr. Sex on Legs pool guy standing at the edge looking down at me. I’m considering seeing how long I can hold my breath. Maybe he’ll decide to leave and I can surface from the depths of my own personal Hell without an audience.

Yes! That’s it. I can do this.

I still hold many records from my high school swimming career. Holding my breath until he leaves should be easy. Unless he decides to be heroic and jumps in to save me. Not a bad scenario either. Then at least we’ll both be drenched in our clothes.

Like a leaky raft, I release my breath one bubble at a time and take a seat at the bottom of the pool. Ha! He’s emptying his pockets. Looks like I won’t be the only drowned rat. Wait. What the hell? No he’s not. Oh dear God, yes he is. Sex on legs dives into the pool, sans shorts and underwear! The two haunting notes from Jaws sound in my head while I scramble to the surface in the opposite direction, desperate to get away from him.

The sweet relief of air filling my lungs is squashed by the anxiety of being chased by a naked stranger.

“Oh my God! What are you doing?” A frantic yell breaks out with the remaining breath in my lungs while I swim toward the ladder, barely escaping him. I leap out of the pool with superhuman speed. Wrapping my arms around myself, I scramble to the pool house, my heart racing and my whole body shaking as I fumble for a towel.

“The water feels great today.” His voice sounds behind me.

I whip around and gasp, wide eyed. A wet, naked, sinful-as-a-hot-fudge-sundae body greets me a few feet away. Hands fisted, his arms are casually crossed at his wrists covering part of his junk in the front. The perfect cover to Sports Illustrated stands before me, and all I want to do is smack him across the face to wipe the stupid smirk off it. Then, of course, I want to jump him and rub every sensitive part of my body against his, because right now I’m so pissed and so turned on, I need to dive into the pool again before I self-combust.

“Finish up and get out,” I mumble as I toss him a towel and stomp toward the house. On my way, I pass Swarley beached out in a lounge chair by the pool. “Evil demon dog!” I scowl at him.

**

Hopeful that he’s gone, I pull my long, wet hair into a ponytail as I tiptoe downstairs in a dry pair of shorts and a green T-shirt from Ireland that says Dublin your pleasure. Unfortunately, the shirt does not impart the luck of the Irish. He’s still here, perched on a barstool in the kitchen.

Watching my approach, he stands.

“Hey, I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he says with a megawatt smile.

“Are you done?” I ask, leaning against the cabinets with my hand resting on my hip.

“Done?”

“With the pool?” I say in exasperation.

He rolls his eyes. “Sure, I’m done.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His face scrunches like he’s ready to tell me something as my phone vibrates in my back pocket.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Sydney. It’s Elizabeth. We just got off the plane and I wanted to make sure you were getting acclimated to the house okay or if you’re having any issues with Swarley.”

“Um, Swarley had some … uh … tummy issues this morning so I took him to Dr. Abbott. He thinks it’s just nerves or something, and Swarley’s been fine since.” I think it’s too early to tell her Swarley might be chained to a stake in the yard by the time they get home.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry you had to deal with that, but thank you. Any other issues so far?”

“Not really. Aaron came to service the pool today,” I say with my eyes squinted at him.

He’s biting at his lips, averting eye contact and rubbing the back of his neck. This behavior is polar opposite to the guy who showed up at the door an hour ago.

“Aaron? Really? He wasn’t supposed to be there until next week. I thought he was still recovering from his gastric bypass surgery. The poor guy is so overweight. I think that’s why Trevor hired him. You know, desperate housewives, hot pool guys. Anyway, I guess that’s one less distraction you’ll have next week. You’ve got our cell numbers. Don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions.”

“Aaron” shifts his wide-eyed gaze to mine while I listen to Elizabeth and ease my way through the kitchen. Without taking my eyes off him, I reach behind me in slow motion and grasp the handle of a large butcher knife in a hardwood block.

“Thanks, Elizabeth, enjoy your trip.”

Holding my phone in one hand and the knife in my other so he can clearly see them, I continue to move farther away.

“Listen, I don’t know who the fuck you are, but I suggest you get out of here before I call the police or … cut you!”

His eyes flash between mine and the knife, yet his look is one of amusement with his lips curling at the corners.

“Cut me?” he says with a raise of his brow.

Waving the knife around with reckless abandon, I growl. “Yes, cut you, stab you, castrate you.”

Squinted blue eyes twinkling with mischief stare at me. “Castrate me?”

“Yes, chop off your penis!” I slice the knife through the air in an X.

“Castration would be removing my testicl—”

“Get out!” I lunge in his direction.

Jumping back, he holds his hands up. “Okay, okay, jeez take it easy. I’m going.”

Keeping a safe distance, I follow him to the door. It shuts and with swift fingers I lock the deadbolt. I freeze mid turn at the sound of a knock on the daylight window. Cupping the sides of his face, he’s peering inside. His smile is sexy but, under the circumstances, a little creepy.

“Wanna go to the beach tomorrow?”

Scowling, I stab the knife through the air in his direction. Shaking his head, he walks to his 4Runner. I wait until he’s gone then retreat to the kitchen.