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She gave me a look so sharp it could cut glass. “Name the last person you dated.”
I hesitated.
Her lips curled. “Exactly. Youdon’tdate. You work. You fix power lines. You help little old ladies like me haul tree branches. But when it comes to finding someone to share this shitty life with, you sit on your perky little ass and do nothing.”
I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “Not everyone finds someone, Mrs. H.”
“Bullshit.” She stabbed a piece of meatloaf with the force of a jackhammer hitting concrete. “There are plenty of good men out there.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Men, huh?”
She didn’t blink. “Don’t give me that look. I’ve known you were gay since you moved in. You think I’m an idiot?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Jesus,” I muttered. “How did you figure that out?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I’ve been alive for eight decades. You think I don’t have gaydar? I knew before you did.”
She knew the term “gaydar”? I really was in trouble.
I shook my head, half laughing, half resigned. “You could’ve said something.”
“And what, out you? No, sir. That wasyourbusiness. Besides, I figured you’d tell me when you were ready. Turns out, you weren’t ever planning on telling me.” She took a sip of wine, watching me over the rim. “That hurts, Hart.”
“Sorry.” I exhaled through my nose. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Of course it matters,” she huffed. “Now I can finally set you up with someone properly.”
I groaned. “Jesus Christ, here we go.”
She perked up, delighted. “So you’re not seeing anyone?”
“No.”
“Good. I got options.”
I groaned again, but she ignored me, already running through her mental Rolodex of single men like some kind of geriatric matchmaker. “Well, my hairdresser is single,” she started. “Nice boy. Good smile. Looks like one of those actors from the cowboy movies. He is a bit, well, on the prissy side. You’re such a stoic slab of beef. You might not be a good match. Besides, I think you might break him when you—”
“Oh, God. I get it. No, thank you.”
“Fine, fine. What about Tommy Delaney? You know, the guy who runs the coffee shop on Main?”
“He’s nineteen years old!” I sighed. “Mrs. H—”
“Oh, oh! Wait, I know! What about Arturo? You remember him? That gorgeous young man from my church? Probably got the best ass in the congregation, if I do say so myself.”
I nearly choked. “Jesus!”
“And his accent. I bet his tongue—”
“Please, stop!”
“What? I’m old, not dead.” She cackled. “I don’t exactly drip down there anymore, but it does still tingle if ya pet the kitty right.”
I dragged my hands down my face. “Can we change the subject?”
“Nope,” she said cheerfully.