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“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.”
The old woman 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.