Chapter one

Mike

There were a few things in this world that I despised with the intensity of a thousand suns.

Three easily topped the list:

Moving.

Moving.

And, just for variety, moving .

So, naturally, my dumb ass decided that after ten years of renting, it was time to buy a house. Because why not? Nothing says “stability” like crippling mortgage debt and a fridge that still wasn’t cooling anything because I forgot to schedule the power transfer.

I stood in my new driveway, surveying my kingdom—a modest, blue-trimmed bungalow at the very end of a sleepy cul-de-sac. It was the kind of place where neighbors actually waved at each other, and someone was likely organizing a casserole meal train at that very moment.

Homer, my perpetual agent of chaos Jack Russell, sat beside me, panting happily, oblivious to the existential crisis I was having.

“Well, bud,” I said, rubbing his head. “We’re officially homeowners. No more landlords. No more rent hikes. No more—”

A loud thunk from inside the house cut me off.

I sighed. It was probably another box falling over, because, despite my best intentions, I had moved in like an unsupervised toddler, tossing things randomly into rooms and hoping for the best.

Homer barked at the noise, then looked up at me expectantly.

“Let’s go see what fell,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t find shattered glass or whatever might’ve been in the cardboard asteroid that fell from the heavens.

Once the door clicked shut behind us, I kneeled and freed Homer from his leash, which sent the maniacal beast into an instant frenzy. His little legs blurred as he darted from the kitchen into the den, then through the doggie door onto the deck. After three laps around the yard that would’ve made a track star jealous, he returned inside, panting with his tongue lolling almost behind his head, only to resume his laps on the interior of our home.

I shook my head. “I need doggie tranquilizers.”

He skidded to a halt at my feet and glared up, his gaze shifting from crack-head terrier to policeman who’d just heard something suspicious.

“Maybe they’re for me, not you, you little terror.”

He barked, squinted his beady little eyes, then shook his head and resumed his zoomies.

I groaned. There was only one thing that would calm him long enough for me to get a moment’s peace, but I didn’t even know where a local dog park was in my fancy new neighborhood.

“Fine, fine. We’ll go for a walk. But no harassing the neighbors, all right?”

He zipped back to sit before me, his tail wagging so hard I could practically hear it making a whooshing sound.

Homer, for all his good-boy qualities, had one fatal flaw—he had absolutely zero boundaries. He loved everyone immediately and excessively, and no one was safe from his affection. Not delivery drivers. Not small children. Not even a cop who once pulled me over for rolling through a stop sign.

(That had been fun. “Sir, control your dog—stop licking my boots!” He was hot. I would’ve liked to lick his boots.)

So, yeah. Walking Homer was always an adventure.

We strolled out of the driveway, the sun already starting to set over my suspiciously idyllic neighborhood. Most of the houses were well kept, lawns mowed, porches adorned with rocking chairs and potted plants.

My immediate neighbor flew a flag bearing the logo of the Atlanta Braves.

The next house had a Toyota Corolla parked in the driveway whose bumper sticker read, “You follow any closer and you’ll have to claim our child.”

The third house has green shutters the color of rancid baby poop. I made a mental note to avoid decorating tips from that owner.

It was all aggressively wholesome.

As we rounded the corner, which was really more of a curve since I lived on a circular street, I noticed an elderly woman drinking what appeared to be lemonade as she watched someone struggling to haul a large bundle of branches toward the curb.

The brush stilled, finally reaching its destination, and the brush dragger straightened. I nearly tripped over Homer.

Standing there, shirtless, with sweat dripping down his chest and a smattering of crunched-up leaves and tree schmutz littering his sun-kissed skin, was the single most handsome man I had ever seen.

I stopped walking.

Homer, unaware that my entire nervous system had just crashed and was resisting a good reboot, tugged at the leash.

But I stood frozen, staring like a total creep.

The man—broad and tan, with a rugged, no-nonsense kind of hotness—reached down to the ground, retrieved an ax, then swung it at a nearby branch, splitting the stubborn wood like it owed him money. Sweat glistened on his skin, his arms thick and corded with muscle, his shoulders so strong I could probably do my taxes on them.

I forgot how to breathe.

The old woman sighed dramatically and waved her lemonade in the air. “Elliot, I told you, I can handle this myself!”

Elliot—because of course he had a strong, classic name like Elliot—just grunted in response, hefting another branch. “You’re eighty-six years old, Mrs. H. And last week, you threw out your back lifting a gallon of milk.”

Mrs. H scoffed. “It was two gallons.”

Elliot gave her an eye roll I thought might knock the poor woman over.

I almost melted into the pavement.

Then, before I could even attempt to formulate a normal human thought, disaster struck.

Homer’s leash slipped from my hand. In less than two seconds, my idiot dog barreled full-speed toward them, a joyful blur of wiry fur and enthusiasm.

“No! Homer, no!” I lunged, but it was too late.

With the kind of horrifying precision only an animal can achieve, Homer launched himself directly at Elliot’s leg and began humping with the force of a thousand suns—a thousand very horny suns determined to make as many little baby suns as was possible in a single humping.

Oh. My. God.

I died instantly. Right there, on the sidewalk. Just collapsed into the earth and let it swallow me whole. This was it. The end of my social life in this neighborhood before it even began. I might as well have died. It would’ve been a kinder, gentler existence than—

Mrs. H wheezed with laughter.

Elliot, to his credit, just looked down at Homer with mild confusion. “Uh . . . buddy? Does this mean we’ve bonded?”

Mrs. H howled, doubling over and spilling lemonade all over her lawn.

“Homer!” I sprinted forward, finally able to move again and mortified beyond words. Grabbing his collar and yanking him away from his unsuspecting victim, I half squealed, half cried deep within my soul where confidence went to die, “What the hell?! We talked about this!”

Elliot cocked an eyebrow. “You . . . talked to your dog about this? About humping my leg?”

“YES, BECAUSE IT’S A PROBLEM,” I blurted.

Kill me. Kill me now.

Homer, utterly unrepentant, wagged his tail and tried to go in for round two.

I hauled him back. “I am so, so sorry. He’s, uh . . . enthusiastic.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Elliot snorted. “Maybe you need to get a little girl dog for him.”

“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.

Something warm.

Something dangerous.

And something that, if I weren’t careful, might just be the start of something very, very interesting.