Page 3

Chapter three

Elliot

There were only a handful 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.

I checked my watch. “I’m early, actually.”

“Not when you’re my age,” she shot back. “I don’t have time to be waiting on men.”

I shook my head and headed to the dining room, where she was setting two plates on a table covered in mismatched placemats. The tablecloth was the same pale-beige frilly thing she’d had covering her lacquered wood since the nineteenth century, and the runner was left over from Christmas—two Christmases ago.

The smell of homemade meatloaf and mashed potatoes filled the air, and my stomach let out a low, traitorous growl. Mrs. H might’ve been pleasantly crusty, but the woman could make Gordon Ramsay look like an amateur in the kitchen.

She gave me a knowing look. “Yeah, yeah, sit your big, beefy ass down. You work too damn much, Elliot, and you look like a man who’s lived off gas station sandwiches for the past week.”

I didn’t deny it.

Because I had, in fact, been living off gas station sandwiches for the past week.

I sat across from her, picking up my fork. “You’re a saint, you know that?”

“God-fucking-damned right, I’m a glorious angel with sparkly stars flying out my ass. Now eat.”

For a while, we ate in companionable silence. That was one thing I liked about Mrs. H—she never felt the need to fill the air with pointless conversation. She only talked when she had something important—or something naughty—to say.

Unfortunately, she always had something important to say when it came to my personal life.

“So, what’s new at work?” she asked, cutting into her meatloaf.

I shrugged. “Same old, same old. Fixed a few transformers. Had a guy nearly electrocute himself trying to cut a tree off his power line.”

She snorted. “People are stupid.”

“Yep, getting more so by the day.”

“Did he die?”

I shook my head. “Just scared himself shitless.”

“Shame,” she muttered. “We need to thin the herd.”

I nearly choked on my mashed potatoes. “Jesus, Mrs. H.”

“What? I’m old. I can say what I want.”

I let her have that one.

She chewed for a moment, then zeroed in for the kill.

“You ever gonna settle down, Hart?”

Here we go. Whenever she called me by my last name, I was well and truly in trouble.

I took a slow sip of water, pretending I hadn’t heard her.

She didn’t let me escape. “Don’t ignore me, boy. I don’t have time for that. I got, like, maybe five good years left, and I’d like to see you with someone before I kick the bucket. You could give me a quick grandchild or two, while you’re at it.”

“Grandchild?” I nearly spat. “I don’t know if I’m made for children, Mrs. H.”

“Pshaw!” She waved a bony hand, flinging mashed potatoes across the table. She cocked her head, examining the messy mash, then resumed her missile-like homing in on me.

“So?”

I sighed, bracing myself. “I date.”

She gave me a look so sharp it could cut glass. “Name the last person you dated.”

I hesitated.

Her lips curled. “Exactly. You don’t date. 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 was your business. 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.

I sighed. “Mrs. H, I appreciate the effort, but I don’t need a matchmaker.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Fine. Then what about that new boy on the street? Mike something? He seemed cute.”

I stilled. “Mike?”

She nodded, pouring herself more wine. I needed to get out of this conversation before she drained the bottle. “Yeah. You know, the nervous one. Clumsier than a baby giraffe in a glassware shop. The one whose dog tried to fuck the life out of your leg.”

I could not believe this was happening.

“Mike’s not—” I stopped, realizing I had no idea what I was about to say.

“Oh, I see.” Mrs. H’s grin resembled the imprisoned Hannibal Lecter, the psycho doctor dude from The Silence of the Lambs . “You noticed him, too, huh?”

I scowled. “He’s . . . nice.”

She cackled. “Nice? Oh, honey, that man was eyeing you like a goddamn steak dinner. You could probably knock him over just by looking at him too hard. I bet his clothes would fall off if you just walked in his door. Come to think of it, he’d probably let you do a lot more than that with his door.”

“Mrs. H!” I huffed a laugh. “He’s a nervous wreck.”

“Adorably so,” she corrected. “And you could use a little adorable in your life, Hart. All you do is work, work, work. When’s the last time you had fun? Hell, when’s the last time you got laid? A little squirty squirt might help your demeanor. Resell values in this neighborhood might go up if you, well, got it up.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, squeezed my eyes shut, and mumbled, “I do things. I have fun.”

“Doing what? Fixing power lines?”

I didn’t answer.

She grinned. “Exactly. Listen, I’m not saying you have to marry the boy, but he’s new, he’s single, and he clearly thinks you’re hotter than a July sidewalk. What’s the harm in getting to know him?”

I considered that for a moment.

Mike was cute. And yeah, he was a little skittish and prone to word vomit, but it was kind of endearing. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed the way his eyes lingered, the way he fumbled his words every time I looked at him.

Not to mention the fact that he had somehow managed to throw frozen peas at me within twenty-four hours of meeting.

Mrs. H watched me like a hawk, clearly enjoying my internal debate.

Finally, she smiled wickedly. “Just think about it, Elliot.”

I rolled my eyes, but damn it, she had a point.

And now, I couldn’t stop thinking about adorably messy red hair and a lopsided grin.