Page 28

His grin couldn’t have grown any wider, and I felt my self-control begin to slip. This man, this hulking beast, was too damn handsome for his own good—hell, for my own good.
I looked from the pizza boxes to the mismatched plates to the Atlanta Braves pint glasses filled with boxed wine, and my heart sagged.
I had dreamed of this dinner going perfectly, pictured myself in full control, dazzling Elliot with my sharp wit and charm while effortlessly serving a delicious homemade meal that would make him think,Wow, this man is a domestic god. I must have him immediately.
Instead, I was sitting beside him on my couch, eating pepperoni pizza out of the box, because I had set my kitchen on fire with garlic bread.
And honestly? The strangest part was that I wasn’t even mad about it.
Elliot looked delicious, even in my very humble, slightly chaotic dining room. He was calm and easygoing, taking a slow sip of his wine while I tried not to let my eyes linger on the way his forearm flexed as he set his glass back down.
“All right, Mike,” Elliot said, grabbing another slice. “Since we’ve already established you shouldn’t be allowed near a stove, tell me something you actually are good at.”
I took a sip of fortification—because I felt classy drinking wine with pizza out of a stadium glass—and thought about it.
“Well,” I said, “I’m an excellent bullshitter.”
Elliot smirked. “Oh?”
I nodded, completely serious. “I once convinced an entire freshman English class that Shakespeare didn’t actually writeHamletbut instead stole the entire thing from a time-traveling wizard named Greg.”
Elliot choked on his wine. “Greg?”
“Greg,” I confirmed solemnly. “And you’d be surprised how long fifteen-year-olds will argue with you about historical accuracy when they think they’ve caught their teacher in a lie.”
Elliot wiped his mouth, still grinning. “And how long did they believe this nonsense?”
“Oh, a solid twenty minutes. Until one of them actually Googled it and yelled, ‘MR. ALBERT IS A LIAR,’ in the middle of class.”
Elliot laughed, shaking his head. “Jesus. You’re an agent of chaos in the classroom, too?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Gotta keep the kids entertained; otherwise, they start testing you.”
Elliot took another sip, studying me with those warm brown eyes that made my brain short-circuit. “So, you always wanted to teach?”
I hesitated, thinking about how to answer.
“Yeah,” I finally said, shrugging. “I mean, I loved books, always have. I liked the idea of helping kids find stories that actually meant something to them.”
Elliot nodded, setting his glass down. “That’s cool. I feel like half the people I know just fell into their jobs accidentally.”
I smirked. “And you? Did you grow up dreaming of climbing power poles for a living?”
Elliot huffed a quiet laugh. “Not exactly.” He leaned back, running a hand over his jaw. “My dad was a lineman. So was my grandfather. Guess I just followed the family tradition.”
I tilted my head, trying to imagine a young Elliot Hart watching his dad work, probably standing in the yard with that same serious, steady expression he had now.
“Do you like it?” I asked.
Elliot nodded. “Yeah. It can be tough work, but it’s good. I like fixing things, seeing a problem, solving it. It feels, I don’t know, solid.”
I tried not to overanalyze how attractive that answer was, because of course Elliot was the kind of guy who liked tangible, no-nonsense problem-solving. Meanwhile, my entire approach to life was guessing and hoping for the best—like with dinner—and that worked out with raw chicken and my dog holding an onion hostage.
“So your family is into hands-on, tough jobs?” I asked.
Elliot gave a wry smile. “Mostly. My dad’s retired now. My brother’s a mechanic. My sister’s a teacher, though, so you two have something in common.”
I perked up. “Really? What does she teach?”