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5

ELLIOT

“S o was it a date or wasn’t it?” Sarah’s voice echoes through my kitchen as I juggle my phone on speaker, coffee mug, and laptop.

“It wasn’t a date.” I set my mug down with perhaps more force than necessary, sloshing coffee dangerously close to my keyboard. “It was tacos. In a parking lot.”

“Mmhmm.” The skepticism in Sarah’s hum is palpable even through the phone. “And the fact that he took you to his favorite taco stand after your totally-not-a-dinner at Marcel’s means nothing?”

I refuse to acknowledge the flutter in my stomach at the memory of Brody insisting I try the fish tacos that had apparently sustained him through rookie season. Or the way he’d flirted when salsa dribbled down my chin. Or how he’d casually handed me a napkin while continuing his story about his first NHL fight, somehow making me feel like my mess was perfectly acceptable rather than mortifying.

“It means he’s from Boston and appreciates authentic Mexican food after years of sad New England attempts,” I say instead, opening my laptop to check my work schedule for the day. “Nothing more.”

“Right.” Sarah’s tone drips with amusement. “And I suppose the fact that Tommy says Brody asked for your number weeks before moving in next door is also meaningless?”

My fingers freeze over the keyboard. “He did what?”

“Oh, did I forget to mention that?” The fake innocence in Sarah’s voice would never hold up in court. “Tommy says Brody called him the day after he signed with Phoenix again, asking if he still had your contact info.”

“That’s...” My brain scrambles for the appropriate reaction, landing somewhere between flattered and alarmed. “Why would he do that?”

“Gee, I don’t know, Elliot. Why would an attractive, single hockey player want the number of an intelligent, beautiful woman he’s always had a thing for? It’s a real mystery.”

“He hasn’t ‘always had a thing’ for me,” I protest, though a traitorous part of my mind flashes back to that Christmas party years ago—the way Brody had looked at me during our literary debate, like what I was saying actually mattered. “We talked books once at a party and ran into each other at team events a couple times before he got traded. That’s it.”

“Mmhmm,” Sarah hums again. “That’s why he remembered exactly what you were reading and brought it up the second he saw you again. Totally normal behavior for someone who wasn’t interested.”

I take a fortifying sip of coffee, refusing to engage with her logic. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work instead of interrogating me about my non-existent love life?”

“This is way more interesting than preparing for a staff meeting. Besides, I need all the details to properly prepare for the gala. Speaking of which, we need to discuss your outfit. I assume you’re wearing that black dress you always wear to these things?”

The abrupt subject change is giving me conversational whiplash. “I was planning on it. Why?”

“Because I need you to be bold this time. We need to go shopping for something new which means you’ll need the right foundation garments.”

I glance at the clock—8:12 AM is far too early to be discussing underwear choices. “I’ll figure it out, Sarah.”

“Please tell me you’re not planning on wearing those beige granny panties I saw in your drawer last time,” she groans. “They’re practical for work but not for a gala dress. You need something seamless. Preferably something that doesn’t make you look like you’ve given up on ever having sex again.”

“Sarah!” I hiss, glad she can’t see the blush creeping up my neck. “I’m not planning my underwear based on hypothetical sex that isn’t going to happen.”

“So you say,” she replies, undeterred. “But just in case the universe delivers a miracle and you decide to live a little, you should be prepared. Do you even own anything remotely sexy anymore?”

The question shouldn’t sting, but it does. After the divorce, I’d systematically purged my closet of anything Jason had bought or expressed preferences about—including several expensive lingerie sets he’d given me “as gifts” that were really for his own enjoyment. What remained was practical, comfortable, and thoroughly unsexy.

“Actually,” I say before I can reconsider, “I bought something new.”

The shocked silence on the other end is deeply satisfying.

“I’m sorry, what?” Sarah finally sputters. “Elliot Waltman voluntarily purchased lingerie? Without me dragging you to the store? Who are you and what have you done with my friend?”

“It’s not a big deal,” I say, immediately regretting the admission. “Cocktail dresses need specific undergarments, like you said. I was being practical.”

“Black lace is never just practical,” Sarah counters with the confidence of someone who knew she’d struck gold. “Send me a picture. I need to see this mythical lingerie that you, Elliot ‘Cotton-Is-The-Only-Acceptable-Fabric’ Waltman, deemed worthy of purchase.”

“I’m not sending you lingerie selfies at eight in the morning,” I protest, though I’m already heading toward my bedroom. Sarah’s enthusiasm is infectious, and part of me wants validation that my impulsive purchase hadn’t been ridiculous.

“Yes, you are,” she says cheerfully. “Because you secretly want my approval, and because you know I’ll keep asking until you give in. Save us both time.”

She’s not wrong. I set my coffee down on my dresser with a sigh. “Fine. Hold on.”

I rummage in my underwear drawer, pushing past practical cottons to the tissue-wrapped package at the back. I hadn’t even tried the set on since bringing it home, half-convinced returning it was the sensible option. But Sarah’s challenge—and the thought of seeing Brody at the gala—has me unwrapping the black lace before I can reconsider.

“I’m waiting,” Sarah sing-songs through the phone. “Don’t tell me you chickened out.”

“Give me a minute,” I mutter, shimmying out of my pajama pants. “Some of us weren’t born knowing how to take lingerie selfies.”

“Just put it on and use the mirror. I’m not asking for professional boudoir shots.”

I change quickly, avoiding my reflection until the matching set is in place. When I finally look up, I barely recognize the woman in the mirror. The black lace is more revealing than anything I’ve worn in years—delicate straps crisscrossing my back, sheer panels strategically placed. Not vulgar, but definitely not the practical cotton Sarah had teased me about.

“Hello?” Sarah prompts. “Did you fall in? Or are you just admiring yourself? Because I would not blame you.”

“I’m here,” I say, adjusting the straps. “Just... this was definitely an aspirational purchase.”

“Show me!”

I position myself in front of the mirror, angling the phone to capture a selfie that shows the lingerie without veering into territory I’d regret sharing. The resulting image is more revealing than I’d intended but not inappropriate—me in black lace, face partially obscured by the phone, bedroom visible in the background.

“Sending it now,” I said, opening my text messages. “But I reserve the right to delete it from your phone the next time I see you.”

“Noted. Though why you think I’d want to keep—oh my GOD!”

Sarah’s exclamation coincides with my finger hitting the send button.

“It’s not that revealing,” I protest. “The important bits are covered.”

“Not the lingerie—though we WILL be discussing that in detail momentarily,” Sarah says with alarming intensity. “I just realized. Does Brody know?”

“Know what?” I frown at the non sequitur, setting the phone down to pull a robe over my lingerie-clad form.

“About your thing for hockey players with literary interests and blue eyes,” Sarah replies, as if it were obvious. “Because Tommy says he was asking all these questions about what books you like now and if you’re still into Russian literature, which is both adorably nerdy and clear evidence that man has not forgotten a single detail of your interaction.”

“I don’t have a ‘thing’ for hockey players,” I say automatically, the familiar denial rising to my lips. “And he’s just being friendly.”

“Right,” Sarah drawls. “That’s why you’ve been glowing like a teenager since he reappeared. Because you’re so unaffected by his friendly neighborhood hockey player routine.”

“I have not been ‘glowing,’” I argue, though a treacherous warmth creeps up my neck at her accusation. “And even if Brody is... interested... that doesn’t mean anything has to happen. The gala is a professional obligation, nothing more.”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetie. But new lingerie tells a different story. That’s not ‘I’m attending a work function’ lingerie. That’s ‘I want someone specific to see me in this’ lingerie.”

“It is not,” I insist, though the thought of Brody seeing me in the lace set sends a decidedly unprofessional thrill through me. “It’s ‘I’m reclaiming my sexuality post-divorce’ lingerie. It has nothing to do with him.”

“Mmhmm.” Sarah’s skepticism could fill a swimming pool.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text that cuts me off mid-retort. I glance down, expecting Sarah’s commentary on the lingerie photo.

Instead, I see a message from Brody.

This is definitely unexpected, but I’m not complaining. Though I think it might make the gala a bit awkward if this is all you’re planning to wear...

For one bewildered moment, I can’t understand what he’s talking about. Then horror dawns with the force of a truck collision.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, blood draining from my face. “OH. MY. GOD!”

“What?” Sarah demands. “What happened? Did you send the picture yet? I want to see the set!”

“I sent it to Brody,” I choke out, staring at my phone in disbelief. “The lingerie picture. I sent it to brODY!”

“WHAT?!” Sarah’s shriek can probably be heard three blocks away. “How did you— Why would you— Oh my god, Elliot!”

“I don’t know!” I’m already frantically searching for a way to unsend the message, fingers trembling so badly I can barely navigate the screen. “I was distracted by your comment about him and I must have clicked his name instead of yours and oh my god he’s seen me in my underwear.”

“Okay, okay, deep breaths,” Sarah coaches, though she sounds like she’s barely suppressing laughter. “What did he say exactly?”

I read his text aloud, my voice strangled with mortification.

“Well, that’s... good?” Sarah offers. “At least he didn’t immediately screenshot it and show the entire team.”

“That doesn’t help!” I groan, sinking onto a chair. “What do I even say to him now? ‘Sorry for the surprise lingerie pic before 9AM, hope we can still make eye contact at the gala’?”

“Actually, that’s not bad,” Sarah muses. “Humor is always good in these situations. Though I’d add something about how he could send one back if he wants to.”

“I am not asking him for underwear pictures!” The mere thought sends a rush of heat to my face that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with an entirely different emotion I refuse to name.

“Fine, be boring,” Sarah sighs. “But seriously, just acknowledge it, apologize if you feel you must, and move on. It’s not like you sent him full frontal nudity.”

“It might as well have been,” I mutter, staring at my phone as if it might spontaneously combust. “I haven’t let anyone see me in less than a bathing suit since the divorce.”

My phone buzzes again, and I nearly drop it in panic.

I realize this was probably not meant for me. I can pretend I never saw it if that makes things easier.

A second message follows immediately.

If we’re being honest, I’m wildly jealous of who it was meant for because you look incredible. In case you were wondering.

“He’s being nice about it,” I report to Sarah, torn between relief and a new kind of mortification. “He says he can pretend he never saw it.”

“See? Total gentleman,” Sarah replies. “Now what are you going to say?”

I take a deep breath before responding.

You’re right. It was meant for Sarah. I’m mortified beyond words. Thank you for being kind about it.

No need for mortification. These things happen. Though if it helps even the playing field, I could send one back. Only fair, right?

I almost choke on air. “He’s offering to send a selfie to ‘even the playing field,’” I tell Sarah, fighting the urge to fan my suddenly overheated face. “Why is he being so... nice about this?”

“Because he’s a decent human being who is also clearly attracted to you,” Sarah says matter-of-factly. “Not all men are Jason, Elle. Some of them actually know how to handle awkward situations with grace.”

Her words hit home in a way I’m not fully prepared for. It’s true—I’ve been measuring all potential interactions against the worst-case Jason scenarios for so long that genuine kindness feels suspicious.

“So what do I say now?” I ask, staring at Brody’s message.

“Well, if you’re not brave enough to take him up on the counter-selfie—which I vote yes on, by the way—at least be gracious about his attempt to make you feel better.”

I consider for a moment.

Your diplomatic handling of this situation is appreciated. I think I’ve fulfilled my embarrassment quota for the month without adding your shirtless photos to my phone. But thank you for the offer.

Fair enough. But don’t overthink this, Elliot. It’s just underwear. We all wear it. Some of us just look better in it than others—and you definitely fall into the ‘better’ category.

The casual compliment, delivered with such apparent ease, makes me flush all over again. Before I can formulate a response, another text comes through.

Actually, you know what? This isn’t fair to you. Give me two minutes.

“What does that mean?” I ask Sarah, panic rising. “What’s not fair? What’s he doing?”

“I have no idea, but I’m officially invested in this saga now,” Sarah replies. “Maybe he’s coming over to talk in person?”

“God, I hope not,” I groan, glancing down at my robe. “I can’t face him right now.”

We wait in suspense for what feels like an eternity but is probably only ninety seconds. Then my phone buzzes again.

It’s a photo.

I stare at it for a full five seconds before my brain processes what I’m seeing. Brody, clearly in his bathroom, wearing nothing but tight black boxer briefs, one hand resting casually across his stomach while the other holds the phone. His face is partially cropped out, but you can see enough to tell he’s sporting a slightly embarrassed grin. The photo highlights everything I’ve been trying not to notice about my neighbor—broad shoulders, muscular chest with just the right amount of dark hair, abs that looked like they’ve been carved from marble, and thighs that...

“Oh my,” I breathe, unable to tear my eyes away.

“What? What happened?” Sarah demands. “Did he send something? What did he send?”

“He sent a picture,” I whisper, unable to find my normal voice. “He’s in his underwear.”

“WHAT?” Sarah practically screams. “Send it to me!”

“Absolutely not!” I clutch the phone to my chest like it’s a state secret. “That would be a violation of his privacy.”

“You literally just described it to me,” Sarah points out. “Besides, he sent it knowing you’d see it. That’s different from you accidentally sending yours.”

“Still no,” I say firmly, though I can’t resist taking another peek at the image. Sweet heaven, those hockey thighs are something else entirely.

“Fine,” Sarah huffs. “At least tell me if it’s good. Scale of one to ten.”

“It’s...” I swallow hard, heat spreading from my face down my neck. “It’s a solid fifteen.”

Sarah whoops so loudly I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “I knew it! All those years of hockey training don’t lie. Is he...proportional?”

“Sarah!” I hiss, though I find myself glancing back at the picture. The boxer briefs leave little to the imagination. “I am not discussing the size of my neighbor’s...attributes.”

“That’s a yes,” Sarah says smugly. “So what are you going to say?”

I stare at the screen, at a complete loss. What is the appropriate response to your hot neighbor sending you an underwear model pose after you accidentally sexted him? Emily Post had definitely not covered this scenario.

The phone buzzes with another text before I can decide.

There. Now we’re even. No need to feel embarrassed at the gala. Though I still think yours is better.

And to be clear, this doesn’t have to be a thing. I just didn’t want you feeling awkward. We can delete these and pretend it never happened if you prefer.

“He says we’re even now,” I report to Sarah, a strange giddiness bubbling up inside me. “And that we can delete the pictures and pretend it never happened.”

“That’s very mature,” Sarah says, sounding disappointed. “Boring, but mature.”

I bite my lip, considering my response. The old Elliot—cautious, burned, protective—would absolutely take the out he’s offering. Delete the picture, pretend this morning never happened, and maintain careful boundaries with the attractive man next door.

But the new Elliot—the one who bought black lace lingerie on impulse and is tired of playing it safe—has other ideas.

I think I’ll keep it for now, if that’s okay with you. Only fair, since you’ve got mine. Though I’m afraid this means I’ll be thinking about those abs when I’m supposed to be networking at the gala.

His response comes so quickly I know he must have been staring at his phone.

Only fair. I’ll be similarly distracted. See you at the gala, Elliot. Looking forward to it more than ever.

“Well?” Sarah prompts. “What did you say? What did he say?”

“I think I just flirted with Brody Carter,” I reply, a little dazed by my own boldness. “And I think he flirted back.”

“Hallelujah!” Sarah exclaims. “It’s a Christmas miracle!”

“It’s not a miracle,” I protest, though I can’t stop the smile spreading across my face. “It’s just a... mutual underwear exchange.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Sarah teases. “Well, whatever it is, I approve. And you’re definitely wearing that lingerie to the gala now, right?”

I glance down at my phone, at the photo of Brody in all his athletic glory, and feel something shift inside me. A door opening that has been closed for far too long.

“Yes,” I say decisively. “Yes, I am.”

After hanging up with Sarah, I try to focus on work, but my mind keeps drifting back to the image now saved on my phone. To the playful confidence it had taken for Brody to send it. To the way he’d turned my mortification into something mutual and almost...fun.

I find myself grinning at my laptop screen like an idiot. The gala has just gotten a lot more interesting. I still didn’t know what will happen between Brody and me—if anything—but for the first time in years, I’m excited to find out.

And if things go sideways? Well, at least I have one hell of a consolation prize saved in my photo gallery.