Page 16 of Men or Paws
I made my way around the house, one stone at a time, getting closer to the backyard and the enormous swimming pool that I had seen in the satellite photo.
Houdini flew right past me.
Marcello had mentioned in the email he sent me last night to make sure to pack a bathing suit because Rocco would allow me to use the pool, except between the hours of seven and eight in the morning, when the pool was probably being cleaned.
He didn’t have to ask me twice.
I visualized the next three weeks as kind of a pseudo-vacation, watching the dog, spending time in the kitchen doing what I love, lounging by the pool and swimming, reading, and maybe even binge-watching something new on Netflix. It would be the easiest paycheck ever.
I had already taken my brother’s advice and given my thirty-day notice to the property manager at my apartment complex, so things were moving quickly.
Fortunately for me, Rocco’s contract stated that I would be paid half the money up front as a retainer for my services, with the remaining money to be paid at the end of the three weeks.
I walked past the tennis court, across the large grass area, and around the hammock that was hanging between two of the palm trees.
Stopping in my tracks, I stood there in awe of the sight that was before me.
It wasn’t the backyard, even though it was impressive and almost as large as a football field. Or the countless tropical plants and trees that made me feel like I was in Hawaii. It wasn’t the outdoor, wood-burning, brick pizza oven, even though I hoped I would be able to use it at least once while I was staying there. Nor was it the size of the swimming pool, big enough to belong to a country club.
Something else rendered my body frozen.
Rocco had just gotten out of the swimming pool.
He was walking toward me.
Dripping wet.
Was it my imagination or was he strutting in slow-motion to the beat of “Sexual Healing” by Marvin Gaye?
My mind was obviously playing tricks on me.
Rocco was wearing black, competition swimwear, the kind you would see on an Olympic swimmer on television. The material held onto his body for dear life, like a sloth clinging to a tree. Most men couldn’t pull off wearing something that revealing, but Rocco was going to win a gold medal for his choice of attire alone, no swimming required.
His body was perfectly proportioned and toned from head to toe.
No fat, no scars, no excess hair, no deformities, no kidding.
That man was a freak.
Freaking gorgeous.
I couldn’t help staring at his toned legs and ten-pack abs.
Dear sweet mother of muscular madness.
I know, I know, my accusation on the phone was one hundred percent wrong.
His abs weren’t fake.
Not even close.
Believe me, I counted them.
Twice.
Rocco’s ten-pack abs were as real as the possibility of me bursting a blood vessel in one of my eyes for staring at them so much.
Seriously, what was wrong with me?
