Page 4

Something warm.
Something dangerous.
And something that, if I weren’t careful, might just be the start of something very, very interesting.
Chapter two
Mike
Ifmovingsuckeddonkeydicks, 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’mnotsayingthegrocery 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 basket, trying to act normal, which immediately made me overthink every single motion. Was I walking 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: