Page 6

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, likePaw Patrolbut 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 three
Elliot
Therewereonlyahandful 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.