Please enjoy a free sample of The Lineman, book three in the Heartstrings of Honor series.
NOTE: This is an unedited sample. Please forgive any errors you might encounter. Dear Editor will squash the bugs during her lovely process.
Chapter 1
Mike
There were a few things in this world that I despised with the intensity of a thousand suns.
Three easily topped the list:
Moving.
Moving.
And, just for variety, moving.
So, naturally, my dumb ass decided that after ten years of renting, it was time to buy a house. Because why not? Nothing says “stability” like crippling mortgage debt and a fridge that still wasn’t cooling anything because I forgot to schedule the power transfer.
I stood in my new driveway, surveying my kingdom—a modest, blue-trimmed bungalow at the very end of a sleepy cul-de-sac. It was the kind of place where neighbors actually waved at each other, and someone was likely organizing a casserole meal train at that very moment.
Homer, my perpetual agent of chaos Jack Russell, sat beside me, panting happily, oblivious to the existential crisis I was having.
“Well, bud,” I said, rubbing his head. “We’re officially homeowners. No more landlords. No more rent hikes. No more—”
A loud thunk from inside the house cut me off.
I sighed. It was probably another box falling over, because, despite my best intentions, I had moved in like an unsupervised toddler, tossing things randomly into rooms and hoping for the best.
Homer barked at the noise, then looked up at me expectantly.
“Let’s go see what fell,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t find shattered glass or whatever might’ve been in the cardboard asteroid that fell from the heavens.
Once the door clicked shut behind us, I kneeled and freed Homer from his leash, which sent the maniacal beast into an instant frenzy. His little legs blurred as he darted from the kitchen into the den, then through the doggie door onto the deck. After three laps around the yard that would’ve made a track star jealous, he returned inside, panting with his tongue lolling almost behind his head, only to resume his laps on the interior of our home.
I shook my head. “I need doggie tranquilizers.”
He skidded to a halt at my feet and glared up, his gaze shifting from crack-head terrier to policeman who’d just heard something suspicious.
“Maybe they’re for me, not you, you little terror.”
He barked, squinted his beady little eyes, then shook his head and resumed his zoomies.
I groaned. There was only one thing that would calm him long enough for me to get a moment’s peace, but I didn’t even know where a local dog park was in my fancy new neighborhood.
“Fine, fine. We’ll go for a walk. But no harassing the neighbors, all right?”
He zipped back to sit before me, his tail wagging so hard I could practically hear it making a whooshing sound.
Homer, for all his good-boy qualities, had one fatal flaw—he had absolutely zero boundaries. He loved everyone immediately and excessively, and no one was safe from his affection. Not delivery drivers. Not small children. Not even a cop who once pulled me over for rolling through a stop sign.
(That had been fun. “Sir, control your dog—stop licking my boots!” He was hot. I would’ve liked to lick his boots.)
So, yeah. Walking Homer was always an adventure.
We strolled out of the driveway, the sun already starting to set over my suspiciously idyllic neighborhood. Most of the houses were well kept, lawns mowed, porches adorned with rocking chairs and potted plants.
My immediate neighbor flew a flag bearing the logo of the Atlanta Braves.
The next house had a Toyota Corolla parked in the driveway whose bumper sticker read, “You follow any closer and you’ll have to claim our child.”
The third house has green shutters the color of rancid baby poop. I made a mental note to avoid decorating tips from that owner.
It was all aggressively wholesome.
As we rounded the corner, which was really more of a curve since I lived on a circular street, I noticed an elderly woman drinking what appeared to be lemonade as she watched someone struggling to haul a large bundle of branches toward the curb.
The brush stilled, finally reaching its destination, and the brush dragger straightened. I nearly tripped over Homer.
Standing there, shirtless, with sweat dripping down his chest and a smattering of crunched-up leaves and tree schmutz littering his sun-kissed skin, was the single most handsome man I had ever seen.
I stopped walking.
Homer, unaware that my entire nervous system had just crashed and was resisting a good reboot, tugged at the leash.
But I stood frozen, staring like a total creep.
The man—broad and tan, with a rugged, no-nonsense kind of hotness—reached down to the ground, retrieved an ax, then swung it at a nearby branch, splitting the stubborn wood like it owed him money. Sweat glistened on his skin, his arms thick and corded with muscle, his shoulders so strong I could probably do my taxes on them.
I forgot how to breathe.
The old woman sighed dramatically and waved her lemonade in the air. “Elliot, I told you, I can handle this myself!”
Elliot—because of course he had a strong, classic name like Elliot—just grunted in response, hefting another branch. “You’re eighty-six years old, Mrs. H. And last week, you threw out your back lifting a gallon of milk.”
Mrs. H scoffed. “It was two gallons.”
Elliot gave her an eye roll I thought might knock the poor woman over.
I almost melted into the pavement.
Then, before I could even attempt to formulate a normal human thought, disaster struck.
Homer’s leash slipped from my hand. In less than two seconds, my idiot dog barreled full-speed toward them, a joyful blur of wiry fur and enthusiasm.
“No! Homer, no!” I lunged, but it was too late.
With the kind of horrifying precision only an animal can achieve, Homer launched himself directly at Elliot’s leg and began humping with the force of a thousand suns—a thousand very horny suns determined to make as many little baby suns as was possible in a single humping.
Oh. My. God.
I died instantly. Right there, on the sidewalk. Just collapsed into the earth and let it swallow me whole. This was it. The end of my social life in this neighborhood before it even began. I might as well have died. It would’ve been a kinder, gentler existence than—
Mrs. H wheezed with laughter.
Elliot, to his credit, just looked down at Homer with mild confusion. “Uh . . . buddy? Does this mean we’ve bonded?”
Mrs. H howled, doubling over and spilling lemonade all over her lawn.
“Homer!” I sprinted forward, finally able to move again and mortified beyond words. Grabbing his collar and yanking him away from his unsuspecting victim, I half squealed, half cried deep within my soul where confidence went to die, “What the hell?! We talked about this!”
Elliot cocked an eyebrow. “You . . . talked to your dog about this? About humping my leg?”
“YES, BECAUSE IT’S A PROBLEM,” I blurted.
Kill me. Kill me now.
Homer, utterly unrepentant, wagged his tail and tried to go in for round two.
I hauled him back. “I am so, so sorry. He’s, uh . . . enthusiastic.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” Elliot snorted. “Maybe you need to get a little girl dog for him.”
“Or a giant teddy bear,” Mrs. H added through tearful laughs. “My old boy loved fucking the shit out of teddy bears. Came all over their fur.”
Elliot and I turned and stared. I think I got grass stains on my chin when it hit the ground. Elliot’s face was stone, though his eyes seemed amused.
I risked looking up at him, and oh, big mistake.
He smiled.
Not just any smile. A small, amused, slightly lopsided smile that made my stomach do a triple axel. The Russian judge gave it a seven, but the others held up nines.
Fucking Russians.
This had to be illegal. Elliot’s amount of handsomeness combined with humor? It wasn’t fair. Not in any reality, and certainly not in one where I lived—oh, holy hell, did he live in the neighborhood, too?
“He’s usually better behaved. I mean, he’s a dog and he’ll do whatever he wants, especially since he’s a Jack Russell, and they’re insane Tasmanian devils, though they’re not from Tasmania. I don’t know of a dog breed indigenous to Tasmania, actually. Either way, he’s friendly, and I swear, he usually keeps his little pink thing in its sheath,” I babbled, my face burning hotter than the actual sun. “He just—he has this thing where he gets really, um, excited when he meets new people, and—oh God, I don’t mean like that. I just mean . . . uh, wow. I should stop talking now.”
Elliot chuckled. “Nah, keep going. This is fun.”
“Fuck right, it is,” the old sailor broad with the lemon fetish chortled.
I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “Please let a sinkhole open up beneath me. It doesn’t have to be a big one, just large enough for my body. Homer can climb out. Just take me.”
Mrs. H cackled. “Oh, honey, you’re fine. This is the most entertainment I’ve had all week.”
“Um . . . glad I could help?” I mumbled, still gripping Homer’s leash like a lifeline.
Elliot wiped his hands on his jeans, the motion doing criminal things to his abs. “You must be the new guy,” he said, extending a calloused, insanely beefy hand. “Elliot Hart.”
I stared at his hand for one second too long, then forced my body to function. “Mike Albert,” I said, shaking it.
Elliot’s grip was firm, warm, and a little rough. I tried not to think about that.
And failed.
“Welcome to the neighborhood, Mike Albert,” Elliot said, his voice deep and smooth like honey over gravel—or honey on gravel, though that would be weird. Who put honey on rocks from the driveway?
My mind reeled.
I nodded, desperately trying to act like a normal human being. “Yeah. Thanks. And, uh . . . sorry again about, you know . . . the leg and all.” I gestured at Homer, who looked annoyingly pleased with himself.
Elliot smirked. “I’ll recover.”
I absolutely would not.
“Did Homer at least get his happy ending?” Mrs. H asked, the wickedness born of a thousand demons dancing in her ancient eyes.
Elliot barked a laugh.
I turned eight shades of red.
Homer barked. The little fucker. Literally.
“Better get back to it. This brush won’t move itself,” Elliot said, motioning with his ax to all the broken limbs littering the yard.
I nodded again. “Uh, okay, great. Looks great. The yard, I mean. And trees and limbs and shit.”
“Shit!” Mrs. H snorted.
I started to turn, but as Elliot gave me one last amused glance before returning to his work, I felt something new settle in my chest.
Something warm.
Something dangerous.
And something that, if I weren’t careful, might just be the start of something very, very interesting.
Chapter 2
Mike
If moving sucked donkey dicks, moving in was a slow form of psychological torture.
Sure, the heavy lifting was over but then came the real hell—unpacking. Every time I opened a box, I was met with the same existential dread: “Where do I put this?” Which was followed immediately by “What is this, and why do I even own it?”
I surveyed the disaster zone that was my living room—half-unpacked boxes, stacks of books, an unopened toolbox, and an absurd number of throw pillows I had apparently collected over the years like some kind of treasure-hoarding dragon with a pillow fetish.
“Well, Homer,” I sighed, hands on my hips. “Time to make this house a home.”
Homer wagged his tail in support, then promptly stole a sock from an open suitcase and pranced away like the tiny criminal he was.
“Hey!” I lunged, but he was already under the dining table, eyes full of defiance—tail still wagging.
I pointed at him. “Fine. Keep it. I didn’t want it anyway.”
Homer wagged harder, thoroughly pleased with himself.
With a sigh, I resigned myself to several hours of unpacking, which, like all productive activities, began with me sitting on the floor and scrolling through my phone instead.
Once I finally got moving, I decided to tackle the most important room first—the kitchen. Because a man needs coffee, and also because I needed to find where I packed the bottle of whiskey I stashed somewhere for emergencies.
Unpacking day definitely qualified as a natural disaster.
By the time I finished unboxing glasses, cutlery, silverware, and the other million tiny things that went in the “drawer of death,” my kitchen looked . . . somewhat functional. I had unpacked the coffee maker (a true priority), shoved random utensils in a drawer where they would definitely get stuck later, found the whiskey (bless all that was holy), and set up a fruit bowl that would never actually contain fruit but looked aesthetically pleasing.
It was progress.
Next came the living room, where I managed to at least unearth the couch from under a mountain of books and blankets. I flipped through some of the books, getting distracted for about thirty minutes before snapping back to reality.
I took a deep breath—and a long pull of whiskey—and looked around.
Okay. It was still a mess, but slightly less horrifying.
My stomach rumbled. Homer pawed at my arm. The dull glow from the open windows told me it was late afternoon, and dinnertime had arrived. Despite everything finding a home in the kitchen, the one thing I didn’t have was actual food. The movers refused to haul anything alive or formerly alive, and I’d given most of my staples to a neighbor whose eight children probably tore through every box within the first five minutes.
I didn’t even have dog food.
“Little bug, Daddy needs to get us some dinner. You stay here and keep my sock safe, okay?”
Homer blinked up, his tail a blur, the sock still firmly in his teeth.
***
I’m not saying the grocery store was aggressively small town, but I’m fairly certain everyone in the checkout line knew each other and had attended at least one of each other’s weddings. Some had the forehead and buck teeth of families whose trees might not have forked as often as common sense—and the law—required.
When I walked in, I was immediately hit with that strange small-town feeling—that unspoken “Who’s this new guy?” vibe. Yes, I lived in Atlanta, the South’s version of an anti-small-town. Still, that’s how it felt.
I grabbed a cart, trying to act normal, which immediately made me overthink every single motion. Was I pushing this too fast? Was my posture weird? Was I gripping the handle too intensely?
Calm down, you freak. It’s just a grocery store.
The good news was that small-town grocery stores were oddly charming. The bad news was that I had no idea where anything was. I wandered aimlessly through the aisles, collecting the essentials:
Coffee (duh).
Eggs, bacon, bread—breakfast foods were survival items.
A variety of snacks and colorful, sugary cereals, because I was an adult child.
Frozen peas (not for any real reason, but they felt like a responsible purchase that would somehow counterbalance all the sugar and alcohol in the far end of the cart—and yes, I kept them separated, lest the wanton lust of the poor grocery choices rub off on the one good one).
As I approached the checkout, a friendly older woman behind the register gave me a once-over and smiled. “Well, hi there, sugar. You must be new around here.”
I nodded, setting my basket down. “Guilty as charged.”
“Welcome to the neighborhood, honey,” she said, scanning my items. “You on that cul-de-sac?”
That cul-de-sac? Were we famous? I swear I saw more streets in the neighborhood than just ours.
“Yeah, just moved in.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Then you’ve met Elliot.”
I choked on nothing.
“I—uh. Yeah. Briefly,” I managed.
She nodded approvingly. “Good man. Works hard. Helps when he can. And handsome, isn’t he?”
I made a noise that was supposed to be casual agreement but sounded more like I was dying of lung cancer—or chlamydia. People died of chlamydia, didn’t they? It was a gurgling disease, right?
She laughed. “You enjoy the neighborhood, sweetheart. And let me know if you need any good pie recipes.”
I barely escaped with my dignity intact—and without a pie recipe I might later regret.
By the time I got home, the sun had almost set, casting a warm golden light over the street, making the place appear even more idyllic than it had before I’d left to forage for food.
As I pulled into my driveway, I spotted a familiar broad-shouldered figure walking down the road.
Elliot.
He wore joggers, a fitted T-shirt, earbuds in, casually strolling like some kind of effortless model in an off-duty ad for Marlboro or Levi’s jeans.
I climbed out of the car, attempted to gather the few wits I had left, and grabbed my grocery bags.
Elliot was almost at my driveway now, walking at an unhurried pace.
I sucked down a deep breath. This was my chance to be normal.
Say hello like a normal person. DO NOT EMBARRASS YOURSELF AGAIN.
Apparently, my inner voice was a screamer.
“Hey, Elliot!” I called, like we stood miles apart. He stopped at the foot of my driveway, like three yards away.
Elliot pulled out an earbud and gave me the kind of slow, easy smile that was probably illegal in some countries—and definitely was in Russia. Stupid Russians and their stingy judges.
“Hey, Mike,” he said, stepping close enough to make my pulse pound.
I forgot how to function.
And that’s when one of my grocery bags betrayed me.
The plastic handle snapped without warning, and an avalanche of groceries tumbled to the pavement—including an entire bag of frozen peas, which landed directly on Elliot’s foot.
In sandals.
Time froze.
I stared down, my face a mask of horror—the groceries scattered, Elliot’s foot now undoubtedly frozen or bruised or frozen and bruised, and my soul exiting my body in humiliation, drifting up to Heaven where it would tell of my misdeeds and snicker with the souls of other fallen fools.
Elliot blinked down at his foot, then back at me.
I opened my mouth. No words came out.
Then he chuckled. It was a deep, warm sound that short-circuited my brain.
“You good there, Mike?”
I wanted to die. “I—yeah. Yep. Totally fine. Just . . . you know. Committing violent acts with frozen vegetables. That’s pea abuse, it is. You should call someone. The grocery police or pea patrol. You know, like Paw Patrol but for peas.”
Elliot grinned, crouched down, and started picking up my groceries like a goddamn gentleman.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said quickly, horrified at the thought of him seeing the snacks I had impulse-bought.
“Actually, I do. My foot is under here somewhere.” Elliot ignored me and casually picked up a pack of Oreos, raising an eyebrow. “Nutritious choices.”
“Don’t judge me,” I muttered, snatching the cookies of the gods.
He smirked and handed me my rebellious bag of peas. “You might wanna get a stronger bag next time . . . or have them double bag. Those plastic things are loaded weapons.”
I tried not to laugh. It came out a groan. “The bag was fine. My luck, however, is absolute garbage.”
Elliot grunted, dusted off his hands, and straightened. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood again. Your dog comes on my leg, then you ‘pea’ on my foot. You’re definitely making an impression.”
His face was so deadpanned I almost thought he was seriously angry. Then I caught the pun, and nervous, high-pitched laughter tumbled out of me so quickly I couldn’t reel it back in.
Elliot’s eyes twinkled with amusement, and before I could say anything else to make things worse, he nodded toward my door. “Need help carrying the rest in?”
I waved him off, already at my embarrassment limit for the day. “I got it. Thanks, though.”
Elliot gave me one last smirk, then slid his earbud back in. “See you around, Mike.”
And with that, he walked off, leaving me standing in my driveway, clutching my frozen peas and trying not to swoon like a Victorian lady with the vapors.
Chapter 3
Elliot
There were only a handful of people in this world who could boss me around without question. Mrs. Henderson was one of them.
At eighty-five, she had the mouth of a sailor, the charm of a black-and-white Hollywood actress, and the subtlety of a hand grenade. She’d lived in the neighborhood since before the Reagan administration was a glimmer in the elephant’s eye and had earned the right to say whatever the hell she wanted—which she did.
Frequently.
And with absolutely no filter.
So when she invited me over for dinner, it wasn’t really an invitation. It was a summons.
I knocked on her door at precisely six o’clock, like I always did, and stepped inside without waiting for her siren’s call demanding my entry.
“You’re late,” she called from the kitchen.
I checked my watch. “I’m early, actually.”
“Not when you’re my age,” she shot back. “I don’t have time to be waiting on men.”
I smirked and headed to the dining room, where she was setting two plates on a table covered in mismatched placemats. The tablecloth was the same pale-beige frilly thing she’d had covering her lacquered wood since the nineteenth century, and the runner was left over from Christmas—two Christmases ago.
The smell of homemade meatloaf and mashed potatoes filled the air, and my stomach let out a low, traitorous growl. Mrs. H might’ve been pleasantly crusty, but the woman could make Gordon Ramsay look like an amateur in the kitchen.
She gave me a knowing look. “Yeah, yeah, sit your big, beefy ass down. You work too damn much, Elliot, and you look like a man who’s lived off gas station sandwiches for the past week.”
I didn’t deny it.
Because I had, in fact, been living off gas station sandwiches for the past week.
I sat across from her, picking up my fork. “You’re a saint, you know that?”
“God-fucking-damned right, I’m a glorious angel with sparkly stars flying out my ass. Now eat.”
For a while, we ate in companionable silence. That was one thing I liked about Mrs. H—she never felt the need to fill the air with pointless conversation. She only talked when she had something important—or something naughty—to say.
Unfortunately, she always had something important to say when it came to my personal life.
“So, what’s new at work?” she asked, cutting into her meatloaf.
I shrugged. “Same old, same old. Fixed a few transformers. Had a guy nearly electrocute himself trying to cut a tree off his power line.”
She snorted. “People are stupid.”
“Yep, getting more so by the day.”
“Did he die?”
I shook my head. “Just scared himself shitless.”
“Shame,” she muttered. “We need to thin the herd.”
I nearly choked on my mashed potatoes. “Jesus, Mrs. H.”
“What? I’m old. I can say what I want.”
I smirked but let her have that one.
She chewed for a moment, then zeroed in for the kill.
“You ever gonna settle down, Hart?”
Here we go. Whenever she called me by my last name, I was well and truly in trouble.
I took a slow sip of water, pretending I hadn’t heard her.
She didn’t let me escape. “Don’t ignore me, boy. I don’t have time for that. I got, like, maybe five good years left, and I’d like to see you with someone before I kick the bucket. You could give me a quick grandchild or two, while you’re at it.”
“Grandchild?” I nearly spat. “I don’t know if I’m made for children, Mrs. H.”
“Pshaw!” She waved a bony hand, flinging mashed potatoes across the table. She cocked her head, examining the messy mash, then resumed her missile-like homing in on me.
“So?”
I sighed, bracing myself. “I date.”
She gave me a look so sharp it could cut glass. “Name the last person you dated.”
I hesitated.
Her lips curled. “Exactly. You don’t date. You work. You fix power lines. You help little old ladies like me haul tree branches. But when it comes to finding someone to share this shitty life with, you sit on your perky little ass and do nothing.”
I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “Not everyone finds someone, Mrs. H.”
“Bullshit.” She stabbed a piece of meatloaf with the force of a jackhammer hitting concrete. “There are plenty of good men out there.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Men, huh?”
She didn’t blink. “Don’t give me that look. I’ve known you were gay since you moved in. You think I’m an idiot?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Jesus,” I muttered. “How did you figure that out?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I’ve been alive for eight decades. You think I don’t have gaydar? I knew before you did.”
She knew the term “gaydar”? I really was in trouble.
I shook my head, half laughing, half resigned. “You could’ve said something.”
“And what, out you? No, sir. That was your business. Besides, I figured you’d tell me when you were ready. Turns out, you weren’t ever planning on telling me.” She took a sip of wine, watching me over the rim. “That hurts, Hart.”
“Sorry.” I exhaled through my nose. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Of course it matters,” she huffed. “Now I can finally set you up with someone properly.”
I groaned. “Jesus Christ, here we go.”
She perked up, delighted. “So you’re not seeing anyone?”
“No.”
“Good. I got options.”
I groaned again, but she ignored me, already running through her mental Rolodex of single men like some kind of geriatric matchmaker. “Well, my hairdresser is single,” she started. “Nice boy. Good smile. Looks like one of those actors from the cowboy movies. He is a bit, well, on the prissy side. You’re such a stoic slab of beef. You might not be a good match. Besides, I think you might break him when you—”
“Oh, God. I get it. No, thank you.”
“Fine, fine. What about Tommy Delaney? You know, the guy who runs the coffee shop on Main?”
“He’s nineteen years old!” I sighed. “Mrs. H—”
“Oh, oh! Wait, I know! What about Arturo? You remember him? That gorgeous young man from my church? Probably got the best ass in the congregation, if I do say so myself.”
I nearly choked. “Jesus!”
“And his accent. I bet his tongue—”
“Please, stop!”
“What? I’m old, not dead.” She cackled. “I don’t exactly drip down there anymore, but it does still tingle if ya pet the kitty right.”
I dragged my hands down my face. “Can we change the subject?”
“Nope,” she said cheerfully.
I sighed. “Mrs. H, I appreciate the effort, but I don’t need a matchmaker.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Fine. Then what about that new boy on the street? Mike something? He seemed cute.”
I stilled. “Mike?”
She nodded, pouring herself more wine. I needed to get out of this conversation before she drained the bottle. “Yeah. You know, the nervous one. Clumsier than a baby giraffe in a glassware shop. The one whose dog tried to fuck the life out of your leg.”
I could not believe this was happening.
“Mike’s not—” I stopped, realizing I had no idea what I was about to say.
“Oh, I see.” Mrs. H’s grin resembled the imprisoned Hannibal Lecter, the psycho doctor dude from The Silence of the Lambs. “You noticed him, too, huh?”
I scowled. “He’s . . . nice.”
She cackled. “Nice? Oh, honey, that man was eyeing you like a goddamn steak dinner. You could probably knock him over just by looking at him too hard. I bet his clothes would fall off if you just walked in his door. Come to think of it, he’d probably let you do a lot more than that with his door.”
“Mrs. H!” I huffed a laugh. “He’s a nervous wreck.”
“Adorably so,” she corrected. “And you could use a little adorable in your life, Hart. All you do is work, work, work. When’s the last time you had fun? Hell, when’s the last time you got laid? A little squirty squirt might help your demeanor. Resell values in this neighborhood might go up if you, well, got it up.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, squeezed my eyes shut, and mumbled, “I do things. I have fun.”
“Doing what? Fixing power lines?”
I didn’t answer.
She grinned. “Exactly. Listen, I’m not saying you have to marry the boy, but he’s new, he’s single, and he clearly thinks you’re hotter than a July sidewalk. What’s the harm in getting to know him?”
I considered that for a moment.
Mike was cute. And yeah, he was a little skittish and prone to word vomit, but it was kind of endearing. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed the way his eyes lingered, the way he fumbled his words every time I looked at him.
Not to mention the fact that he had somehow managed to throw frozen peas at me within twenty-four hours of meeting.
Mrs. H watched me like a hawk, clearly enjoying my internal debate.
Finally, she smirked. “Just think about it, Elliot.”
I rolled my eyes, but damn it, she had a point.
And now, I couldn’t stop thinking about adorably messy red hair and a lopsided grin.