Page 133 of Babies for the Big Shot
And then… chaos.
Asirenstarts wailing from somewhere in the walls, followed by a robotic female voice calmly announcing:“Security breach detected. Penthouse lockdown initiated.”
“What?!” I scream.
The shower shuts off. The lights flicker red. Something clicks loudly, and I swear I hear a panel sliding shut in the hallway.
Meatball starts barking so loudly, my anxiety spikes.
Panicking, I leap out of the shower, dripping wet, and wrap myself in the world’s tiniest towel, because of course Nick only stocks hotel-chic linens the size of napkins for small dogs or European models.
I run into the hallway, slipping slightly, just in time to see armed security burst through the private elevator door as if they’re raiding a mob hideout.
“Stay where you are!” one of them yells.
I freeze, a deer in headlights and body wash. “I’m sorry, I just… I don’t know what I did, I…”
The guy blinks.
Then Meatball escapes his room and launches.
And by launches, I mean hehurlshis twenty-seven-pound body at the nearest boot. There’s snarling. There’s growling.
There’s a very large man trying to shake off a very determined bulldog while shouting, “Sir, there’s something on me!”
Then, of course, Nick walks in.
Hair mussed. Tie askew. Eyes scanning the room, possibly wondering who to fire.
He takes in the red flashing lights. The security guy doing the hokey pokey with Meatball on his foot. Me, dripping andhumiliated, clutching my towel like a contestant onSurvivor: Bathtub Island.
Nick exhales through his nose, slow and controlled.
“For the love of god,” he mutters, “did you hitallthe buttons?”
“I was trying to shower and I just… I don’t know…!”
He rubs a hand over his face, clearly questioning every life decision that led him to this moment. “The emergency panel is meant for security overrides. Not… exfoliation-related emergencies.”
“Ileaned, Nick! I didn’t even press anything hard! It beeped at me and then the apartment tried tolock me in!”
Meatball finally lets go of the guy’s boot and trots back to me, smug and slightly foamy.
One of the security guys clears his throat, not quite making eye contact. “Uh, Mr. Ashford? Should we… stand down?”
Nick nods, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes. And call off the lockdown protocol. It’s not a threat. It’s just my… Sara.”
The way he says it,my Sara, shouldn’t make my chest go all warm and fluttery given the circumstances. But it does.
“Also,” he adds dryly, looking pointedly at the disaster zone, “call maintenance. And maybe someone who’s good with espresso machines.”
I shoot him a glare. “Don’t judge me. You built a house that’s literally a Bond villain lair.”
He arches an eyebrow. “And yet you triggered a full-blown panic alarmby accident.”
“I was multitasking!”
Nick looks at me, dripping wet and barefoot, towel barely hanging on, bulldog at my feet, and he does the one thing I absolutely don’t expect.
