Page 6 of Wildest Dreams

I breathe a sigh of relief and look back as the woman frantically gets out of her car. She’s little, barely clearing five feet tall, and wearing pajama pants, flip-flops, and a t-shirt from Auburn University. I unlatch the deck gate and make my way down the steps as she runs towards me, apologizing profusely. She’s older than I thought she was from judging her voice—maybe late twenties? Early thirties? Either way, she’s beautiful and I’m humiliated.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I can’t believe she’s still here. No one has lived in this house?—”

I raise my hands to cut her off. “It’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting an alligator.”

We meet in the middle of the sloping back yard. I run my hands through my hair and realize she’s frozen, staring at me.

And here it comes: the first embarrassment of recognition.

“Oh my god,” she says, her face blanching. “You’re Pierre Chatham.”

KENDALL

Pierre.

Pierre Chatham.

Pierre Chatham is living in my house. Standing in my yard. It might as well be Brad Pitt. Never in my wildest dreams did I image someone like this would be renting my house.

I’m here, in front of Pierre Chatham, with no makeup, wearing mismatched pajamas and flip-flops. Not to mention that my hands are covered in rotisserie chicken grime.

What. A. Nightmare.

He’s…well…he’s exactly what you would expect a movie star to look like. Tall, lean, broad shoulders, piercing blue eyes, and messy, dirty blond hair. He’s older than me, but not by much. He has fine lines around his eyes and his skin is slightly weathered, but he wears it well. I could go on, but the more I think about how perfect he looks, the more I realize how imperfect I look.

Humiliation? Mortification? No. The English language lacks the word for how completely stupid, surprised, and horrified I feel. I want to crawl into a hole and die.

“I’m so sorry,” I say again. This apology is not for Bertha, but for myself. For the stupefied look on my face. For blurting out his name like he’s a thing instead of a person. For clearly making him uncomfortable.

He shakes his head. “No, you’re fine. I’m just happy the alligator is gone.”

We stare at each other for a moment, not saying anything. What do you say to a movie star? I want to act normal, but I’m too awkward and can’t think of anything to talk about, so I simply stand with my mouth hanging open and wiping my hands on my pants like a toddler.

“Did you want to come in and wash your hands?”

My stomach drops. I haven’t been in the house since the divorce and I have no plans to go back inside anytime soon.

“No,” I say, looking down at my feet. My toenails aren’t even painted. Ugh. I’m a mess. “I’m good.”

“So,” he says with a sly grin that cuts the tension, “can I expect Bertha to visit often or…?”

I laugh and he looks down at me with an amused expression. When our eyes meet, I melt like butter on a biscuit.

“Well,” I say, “now that she knows you’re here, you may want to keep the fridge stocked with chicken.”

He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “I can’t believe that happened. My heart is still racing.”

“Welcome to Alabama!” I say, trying to lighten the mood. He chuckles, that million-dollar Hollywood smile sending butterflies straight to my gut. “I really can’t apologize enough.”

“It’s fine. Just do me a favor and warn the next guy who rents your house.”

“I will.”

Again we stand there, looking at each other for what seems like an age.

“Do you want some water or something? My assistant stocked the pantry for me. I’m not sure what all is in there, but you’re welcome to anything.”

“No, I should get back home. I have, um, laundry and stuff.”

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