As always, thank you for your continued support. Also, thank you for your response to yet another un-original...I appreciate it.

I do not own Glee or the characters, neither do I own 'It Had To Be You'.


At the unexpected sound of a male's voice, Mercedes' heart leaped into her throat.

She whirled and stared in shock at the guy standing in her kitchen. And, reacting without thinking, she grabbed the key bowl off the counter and flung it at his head.

He ducked, and the bowl bounced off the wall behind him, shattering into a hundred pieces.

And as ceramic shards tinkled to the tiled floor, he straightened, dominating the kitchen and turned to her, his green eyes narrowed.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded, heart thundering.

"Oh no, you first," he said, arms crossed, looking impenetrable and imposing. "Why are you throwing shit at me?"

Wishing like hell that she had clothes on, Mercedes leaned and was surreptitiously reaching for the coffee mug on the counter...another of her creations...to pitch at his head, when he lunged and wrenched the mug from her hand.

"Stop with the target practice," he said, oozing dangerous levels of testosterone.

He was tall...probably six feet or more...and built like he was very familiar with a gym or physical labor.

And while he stood there in the middle of the kitchen, as if he owned the place, she took in other details.

His green eyes were sharp.

'All the better to see you with, my dear,' she thought half hysterically, feeling a little bit like Little Red Riding Hood must have, when she'd been trapped by the big, bad wolf.

His hair was blonde and tousled, as if he couldn't be bothered with a comb. His T-shirt was stretched across broad shoulders, and his jeans were sitting low on lean hips.

And his cross-trainers made no noise when he took a step towards her.

'All the better to catch you with, my dear...'

But he didn't look like the big, bad wolf, she told her panicky self. Nor did he look like an axe murderer who broke into homes and tortured women in their undies...not that she was sure what an axe murderer might look like.

Snatching the dish towel off the counter, she attempted to cover herself, since her Victoria's Secrets weren't hiding much of her secrets.

The maybe–axe murderer's gaze wasn't leering, though he was definitely taking in her body, and she forced herself not to squeak as he snatched her sweater off the back of a chair and held it out to her, his mouth a hard, thin line.

'All the better to eat you with, my dear...'


With her heart in her throat, Mercedes didn't reach for the sweater. She was afraid to.

Instead, she eyed the block of knives two feet over on the counter, wondering if she could possibly get to them before...

He shoved them farther away.

'Dammit!'

"You're trespassing," she said, proud of her steely voice.

"No, that would be you."

Clutching the towel for all she was worth, she shook her head.

"I live here." Although technically, thanks to Brody, that wasn't quite true anymore. "And if you don't go, I'm going to call the cops."

He didn't go.

She knew exactly one self-defense move, and she went for it, risking everything to step into him and jerk her knee up.

But he moved so fast, she didn't have to time to get him in the family jewels. She didn't even have time to blink before she was helplessly pinned against the counter by a tough, sinewy body.

"Stop," he said in her ear.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he stepped back from her, once again offering her the sweater.

This time she took it, dropping the tiny, ineffective dish towel and diving gratefully into the long garment, so that she was covered from her chin to her thighs.

'Better,' she thought.

Or as better as she could be, with the stranger watching her carefully.

He stepped back a little farther still, giving her some badly needed space.

His expression was carefully neutral, but his body language spoke of a deadly tension, that she didn't want to further provoke.


"So," he said calmly, propping up the doorjamb with a broad shoulder. "Did you break in?"

Was he serious?

He certainly looked serious. Not to mention, stoic and controlled, which set her nerves crackling.

His green eyes were clear and concise. She only noticed, because she was watching him closely for any sign of aggression.

His face would be classified as devastatingly handsome, but it also could've been carved in stone, because, his expression dialed to an intimidating pissed off.

But she was pissed off too.

And more than a little bit scared.

Sure, she'd grown up in a tough neighborhood, but this guy was light-years ahead of her in bad-ass experience.

He had attitude written all over him, and a day's worth of stubble darkening his jaw.

Though his hair was cut short, some of it managed to fall across his forehead, which didn't soften his appearance. And she pretty much doubted, there was anything soft about this man.


"I didn't break in," Mercedes said. "I live here."

"That's impossible."

"How would you know?" she asked.

"Because I own the house."

Still leaning against the doorway, Sam gave the woman standing in front of him a long look, that usually had bad guys running like hell.

But she wasn't running.

Instead, she met his gaze with wide, brown eyes, making him wonder about the glimpse of fierceness he'd seen, when she'd been leaving that phone message.

He ached for peace and quiet, and she was clearly the opposite of peace and quiet. So he needed to show her the door.

"You own this place?" she asked. "You're Sam Evans?"

"Yes," he replied.

But she didn't relax.

"I'm going to need to see your ID," she said, a challenge in her voice.

That was usually his line.

And for a woman standing, in little more than a lightweight peach sweater, she had balls.

Except, what she really had, was an acre of soft looking brown, smooth skin and that mind-warping sweet, curvy body...and one glorious ass.


Sam pulled out his wallet and showed her his driver's license.

"Now you," he said.

Mercedes blinked once like an owl, her brown eyes not nearly as hostile now, as she shoved some of her wild hair from her face.

"I'll have to get it out of my truck," she said. "I left my purse out there."

The cop in him winced. But this was North Bend not San Francisco, and people felt safe here.

And yet, he knew better than anyone, that shit happened everywhere.


"I had this place rented out to a single male through a management service," Sam told her. "No B and E experts or half-naked women were on the lease."

He'd really counted on finding the place empty and was prepared to facilitate that, by whatever means necessary, because he needed s few weeks of peace and quiet in the worst possible way.

"Brody didn't tell me until a few hours ago, that he hadn't re-signed the lease," she said.

"Brody," he repeated. "The 'rat fink bastard' you were yelling at on the phone?"

Mercedes nibbled on her lower lip.

"So you heard all that, huh?"

Yeah, he'd heard it and had suddenly appreciated his long dry spell in the women department, though he didn't say that to her.

"Where's Wesson now?" he asked.

"He moved out."

Turning from him, she climbed onto the bar-stool, and for one brief glorious second, the sweater raised, flashing him another quick peek-a-boo shot of those hot, little panties before she settled.

She really did have a world-class ass.

And a wedgie.


"He never mentioned he wasn't re-signing the lease?" Sam asked.

"No. Hence the 'rat fink bastard' part."

That nearly got a genuine smile out of him. It would have been his first in weeks, but he bit it back. Because in truth, there was nothing funny about this.

He'd come here to be alone.

He needed to be alone.


It'd been years since he had been here.

After inheriting the house from his grandma, he'd kept it rented out.

He'd done so purposely, even though, he'd spent some of the best times of his life here while growing up.

The cliffs and water had been a teenager's haven and so had the pier and arcade.

Back then, he hadn't cared that the house was inconvenient to get to or isolated. And he cared even less now. In fact, he liked both of those things.


The property included a rickety set of stairs, which led down to the beach and its own small dock.

And the huge, old house was equally rickety.

He hadn't thought of selling it though, not once. He couldn't, not without far more guilt than he was equipped to handle.

He was glad for that now, because, he'd needed out of San Francisco after his life had detonated.

On his last case, he'd been part of the unit, that had been tasked with gathering evidence against Senator William Shuester, who was accused of murdering three young women over the course of a year.

From the beginning, the evidence had been shaky at best. There were a few emails, texts, and phone calls between the senator and the women.

And a handful of questionable expenses.

But Shuester was respected, and, by all accounts, also a decent guy.

During four months of investigation, not one person had said a negative thing about him, other than the guy worked too hard. And eventually, due to lack of evidence, the case against him had been dropped.

Two days later, the senator's pretty, young aide, Carolina Diaz, had floated in on the tide of the San Francisco Bay.

And the senator was found only an hour after, hanging from the rafters.

The press had gone ape-shit that no one had seen this coming, questioning the integrity of everyone involved with the case, including the judge, the DA, and the entire investigative team...which Sam had led.

He still felt sick about Ms. Diaz's death. He couldn't get passed his gut feeling that he should have known.

Disgusted with the job, the system, and especially himself, he'd put in for all twenty-one days of the vacation he'd accumulated and left the city, hoping to find his sanity.

His plan was to come here and sleep for at least a week and then maybe have some pizza and catch a few games...then sleep for another two weeks.

He'd wanted to do that free of other people, especially, recently dumped-by-text renters.


"Okay," Sam said, "So Wesson's gone, and you're...?" He paused for her answer, thinking that the only acceptable response would be "leaving now."

"I have a place to move to," Brown Eyes said.

'Thank God.'

"Probably," she muttered, then paused. "Hopefully. As soon as I hear back from the applications I put in today, I'll know more. Not that this is your problem, of course."

She hopped off the bar-stool, and Sam told himself, that the reason his body tightened, was relief that she was on the move and he wasn't going to have to forcibly remove the sexy, crazy, naked lady from his house.

But instead of gathering her things and going, she walked to the refrigerator and pulled out some ingredients.

"You like turkey?" she asked.

He blinked at the quick subject change.

"Y-yeah."

"Your stomach's growling."

Quick as lightning, she put together a thick turkey sandwich with some fixings and handed it to him.

"Thanks," he said in surprise.

"No problem."


Moving to the counter, Mercedes stared out the window.

The hem of her sweater covered her ass...just barely, and part of her thighs, hugging her curves for all it was worth.

Her legs were thick, short and toned and looked oh so pretty.

Working at not imagining running his hands up their entire length, Sam took a big bite out of his sandwich, and focused on the taste of it.


Still looking out the window in silence, Mercedes set one foot on top of the other and cocked a hip.

"I think there are boxes in the garage," Sam said, trying to be helpful. Hell, he'd even carry her shit out for her.

More silence, which was normally his thing. And he was good at it too.

But when she finally spoke, the words stabbed him.

"Dumped and made homeless in the same day," she said softly. "That's got to be some kind of record for pathetic, right?"


Sam let out a breath, pushed the now-empty plate away, and tried to harden his already stone heart.

That his ex-renter had screwed her over wasn't his problem. He was temporarily off duty from solving other people's problems.

Sure, she'd had a tough break, but the cold, hard fact was that, lots of good people got screwed over, every day of the week.

He couldn't care right now.

He hadn't slept in days, and he was going to pass out on his feet, if he didn't get horizontal in the next five minutes.


"Look, stay tonight. It's not that big of a deal," he offered.

But she didn't move from her perch.

"Thank you, but no. I'll be okay."

Sam followed her gaze to the ancient Toyota truck parked at the curb. He'd been a detective long enough, to know exactly what she was thinking...she was going to sleep in her truck.

"Seriously. Stay one more night," he kindly said.

Mercedes turned and looked at him then, eyes bright with pride.

"Don't you dare feel sorry for me."

Sam had a sister and a mom, so he knew how to swim through the shark-infested waters of a woman's psyche, without getting injured.


"Are you kidding?" he asked. "I feel sorry for me. The sandwich was great, and I'm not much in the kitchen. Even if I was, I'm too tired to go to the store for stuff. If you leave now, I'll go hungry tomorrow."

She stared at him for a long moment, but he didn't have to work at looking genuine, because he'd spoken the utter truth.

"You won't be sorry," she finally said. "Or hungry."

And then, she vanished down the hall.

Sam didn't like to disagree with a pretty woman, but he had a feeling she was going to be dead wrong, on at least one of those points.


Stay safe!