Page 18

He shrugged. “I fix houses sometimes.”
Of course, he did.
Because he was perfect and could probably fix things with just the power of his presence.
I tossed the GoT knob back in its box before I said something stupid. Elliot, true to his word, helped me sift through the dozens of options, ultimately landing on a set of sleek, modern, silver pulls that would match the faucet well.
“No school today?” he asked.
“I took a half day off. Did my homeroom and first couple of classes, then came here. My principal’s awesome. She’s all about us nesting and getting comfortable. I think it’s part of her strategy to retain teachers by making them so comfy they never want to leave.”
“Huh,” Elliot grunted. “Sounds like a smart lady.”
“I like her well enough.” I shrugged. “What’s your story today? No lines down in this big, bad city of ours?”
He grunted again. What was with that? Was he secretly a gorilla wearing a man suit?
“Worked early,” he said in his Cro-Magnon way with words, which was sexy as fuck, if I was being honest.
I nodded as I double-checked my cart to ensure I’d grabbed the right number of pulls.
“So,” Elliot said, shoving his hands in his pockets and drawing my attention up from my cart. “I was about to grab lunch. You hungry?”
Oh, I was hungry.
For terrible, sinful things that should not be happening in a Home Depot aisle—unless someone wanted to shoot a porn movie about Home Depot and stripping a man’s apron off and bending him over lumber and . . .
Fuck, I needed a cold shower.
Instead, I nodded. “Yeah. Sure. Where?”
“There’s a sandwich shop around the corner.”
Not exactly the most romantic lunch, but I wasn’t about to be picky. I would be eating Elliot . . . shit . . . eatingwithElliot.
EatingataSubwayinside a Home Depot parking lot wasn’t exactly where I imagined having lunch with my stupidly handsome neighbor, but who was I to complain?
And yet, there we were.
Me, trying not to read too much into things.
And Elliot?
Casually tearing into his sandwich like he wasn’t single-handedly dismantling my entire ability to function.
“So,” Elliot said, mid-bite. “Are you one of those people who judges sandwich orders?”
I blinked. “What?”
He gestured at my turkey and Swiss on wheat like it was a personal offense.
“You know,” he said. “One of those people who thinks certain sandwiches reveal deep truths about a person.”
I raised my brows. “Oh, you mean like how a guy who orders a plain ham and cheese on white bread with no toppings probably has the personality of a tax accountant?”
“Or a serial killer,” Elliot said without a hint of a smile.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I might need to see what you ordered first before I make a judgment.”