Page 2

Chapter two

Mike

If moving sucked donkey dicks, 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’m not saying the grocery 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:

Coffee (duh).

Eggs, bacon, bread—breakfast foods were survival items.

A variety of snacks and colorful, sugary cereals, because I was an adult child.

Frozen peas (not for any real reason, but they felt like a responsible purchase that would somehow counterbalance all the sugar and alcohol in the far end of the basket—and yes, I kept them separated, lest the wanton lust of the poor grocery choices rub off on the one good one).

As I approached the checkout, a friendly older woman behind the register gave me a once-over and smiled. “Well, hi there, sugar. You must be new around here.”

I nodded, setting my basket down. “Guilty as charged.”

“Welcome to the neighborhood, honey,” she said, scanning my items. “You on that cul-de-sac?”

That cul-de-sac? Were we famous? I swear I saw more streets in the neighborhood than just ours.

“Yeah, just moved in.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Then you’ve met Elliot.”

I choked on nothing.

“I—uh. Yeah. Briefly,” I managed.

She nodded approvingly. “Good man. Works hard. Helps when he can. And handsome, isn’t he?”

I made a noise that was supposed to be casual agreement but sounded more like I was dying of lung cancer—or chlamydia. People died of chlamydia, didn’t they? It was a gurgling disease, right?

She laughed. “You enjoy the neighborhood, sweetheart. And let me know if you need any good pie recipes.”

I barely escaped with my dignity intact—and without a pie recipe I might later regret.

By the time I got home, the sun had almost set, casting a warm golden light over the street, making the place appear even more idyllic than it had before I’d left to forage for food.

As I pulled into my driveway, I spotted a familiar broad-shouldered figure walking down the road.

Elliot.

He wore joggers, a fitted T-shirt, earbuds in, casually strolling like some kind of effortless model in an off-duty ad for Marlboro or Levi’s jeans.

I climbed out of the car, attempted to gather the few wits I had left, and grabbed my grocery bags.

Elliot was almost at my driveway now, walking at an unhurried pace.

I sucked down a deep breath. This was my chance to be normal.

Say hello like a normal person. DO NOT EMBARRASS YOURSELF AGAIN.

Apparently, my inner voice was a screamer.

“Hey, Elliot!” I called, like we stood miles apart. He stopped at the foot of my driveway, like three yards away.

Elliot pulled out an earbud and gave me the kind of slow, easy smile that was probably illegal in some countries—and definitely was in Russia. Stupid Russians and their stingy judges.

“Hey, Mike,” he said, stepping close enough to make my pulse pound.

I forgot how to function.

And that’s when one of my grocery bags betrayed me.

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, like Paw Patrol but 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.