A knock at A.J.’s door blended in with the ambient noise of the storm until he heard a feminine, “Hello? Anybody home?”

He forced himself to surface from his writing fog, then frowned. He lived on the far corner of his parents’ ranch—miles from the nearest town. Had his characters become so real to him that he’d started hearing them with his ears instead of his head?

He glanced at the screen of his laptop. No, his female character would definitely not be saying hello-is-anybody-home at this particular moment in the scene.

The knock came again. More insistent this time. “Hello?”

Grabbing his jeans from the floor, he yanked them on, hopping toward the entrance as he pulled them up over his hips. He checked his watch. Still afternoon, but dark and gloomy from the storm. He swung open the door.

Wet, bedraggled, and wearing a formfitting, red suit jacket with a matching pencil skirt, a woman flicked her wide-eyed gaze down his bare chest and open denims before darting back to his face. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

Zipping up, he glanced beyond the covered porch, but saw no car. What he did see, though, was a flood of water covering all but the crest of his road. “No, ma’am.”

“Oh, well, my rental car started filling up with water a ways back.” She twirled her hand indicating the woods behind her. “I had no choice but to abandon it. I saw your mailbox, then the No Trespassing signs, but this was an emergency, so I followed the road to your house.” She swiped back a clump of blond hair from her face. “Please tell me you’re not a serial killer.”

Sighing, he widened the door, allowing her space to come in. “I’m not a serial killer.”

She surveyed the polished wood floor just beyond the doorway. “I’m sopping wet. I don’t want to make a mess on your floor.”

“It’ll be fine.”

Bracing herself on the doorframe, she bent her knee and slipped one mud-caked red pump off her foot, then did the same with the other. She went from being about five-foot-ten to five-foot-seven.

“You’re really so kind to do this,” she said.

A whipping wind carried the dank smell of boggy earth and drove rain onto the edge of his porch.

Without making any effort to come inside, she swooped her hair to the side and wrung it out like a mop. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Close your eyes—just for a second. I need to take off these pantyhose.”

White hosiery littered with runs and splattered with mud outlined very shapely, very long legs.

He lifted a brow. “Please confirm you’re not a wily thief about to do me in.”

She smiled and he blinked. Even grimy and dripping, the woman’s wide grin was all sunshine, daylight, and beautiful white teeth. “I’m not a wily thief.”

“What about a thief of any kind—wily or no?” he clarified.

“Not a thief of any kind. Just a stranded flight attendant trying to keep from making a mess on your lovely wooden floor.”

A flight attendant. Of course. He now recognized the red suit and the red, white, and blue silk scarf tied limply about her neck as part of a uniform he’d seen on countless occasions. He allowed his gaze to slide down to her breast pocket. The requisite pair of flight wings were pinned to it. 

He closed his eyes as requested and heard the swish of hosiery. He tried not to conjure up an image of her lifting her skirt in order to perform her task, but he was a writer. It was his job to conjure up images within his head and describe them in detail. And his imagination said, “Niiiiiice.”