He shrugged and stepped out of his boots, dropping them against the house. Next came the vest, which he draped over the stone wall that lined the walkway. “Carol, the prop mistress, will kill me if these get ruined,” he said as he handed her his gun and holster.

“Okay,” she said, her voice a little wobbly. When he peeled his skin-tight pants off and arranged them on the wall with his vest, her heart raced. He stood in front of her in boxer briefs that didn’t leave much to the imagination. The words written across the front read: #1 JOHNSON.

“What? They’re from a fan.”

“Your fans send you underwear?”

“Among other things.” He grinned again. “Can I come in now? I’m getting cold.”

“Sure. Yeah. Come on in.” She stepped inside, hung her hat on the doorknob, and scanned the living room quickly to make sure it wasn’t too messy. “Can I get you something to drink, coffee, tea, or—”

“A beer would be great.”

“I thought you said you were cold.”

“A little.”

Who was she kidding? A beer sounded amazing.