“You’re gay.” She made it a statement, not a question, which would have upset a lot of jocks, but he had a big gay fan base, and he didn’t believe in disrespecting the people who supported him.

“Yeah, but I’m totally in the closet.”

Being gay might have some advantages, he decided. Not the reality of it—he couldn’t even think about that—but hanging out with interesting women without worrying about leading them on. Over the past fifteen years, he’d expended too much energy convincing some very nice females they weren’t going to be the mother of his children, but gay men never had that problem. They could relax and just be pals. He glanced over at her. “Word gets out about my sexual preference, it’ll ruin my career, so I’d appreciate you keeping the information to yourself.”

She lifted one damp eyebrow. “Like it’s some big secret. I knew you were gay five seconds after I met you.”

She had to be putting him on.

She started working away at her bottom lip with her teeth. “Do you mind if I tag along with you for a while today?”

“You’re leaving your car behind?”

“It’s not worth repairing. Ben can have it towed. With the missing beaver head and all, it’s a good bet I won’t get paid, so he owes me.”

Dean thought about it. Sally had called it right. The Beav was a ballbuster, his least favorite kind of female. But she was also entertaining. “We’ll try it for a couple of hours,” he said, “but I’m not promising more than that.”

They pulled up in front of a corrugated metal building painted an unfortunate shade of turquoise. It was Sunday afternoon, and the gravel parking lot at Ben’s Big Beaver Lumberyard held only two vehicles, a rusted-out blue Camaro and a late-model pickup. A CLOSED sign swung from a pair of suction cups on the door, which was still wedged open to catch the breeze. Ever the gentleman, he got out to help her. “Watch your tail there.”

She gave him a withering glare, managed a slightly more graceful exit, and shuffled to the lumberyard door. As she opened it, he glimpsed a barrel-chested man stacking a display. She disappeared inside.

He’d just finished surveying the unimpressive scenery—a collection of Dumpsters and some power lines—when she stomped back out, a bundle of clothes in her arms. “Ben’s wife cut her hand, and he had to take her to the emergency room. That’s why she didn’t pick me up. Unfortunately, I can’t get out of this thing by myself.” She shot a disgruntled look toward the guy in the store. “And I refuse to let a professional sex deviant unzip me.”

Dean smiled. Who knew there were so many advantages to an alternative lifestyle? “I’ll be glad to help.”