Page 6

Chapter six

Mike

There was something undeniably sexy about Home Depot—not in a “Wow, look at these screws” kind of way, but in the subconscious thirst trap way.

Lumber. Power tools. The faint scent of sawdust.

Hot, burly men wandering the aisles looking all rugged and competent.

I mean, how was this place not a gay bar?

Except for the lesbians and their tool belts. They were an odd twist to my hardware store fantasy vibe. Like if Miranda Priestly from Devil Wears Prada wore Birkenstocks. That would seriously mess with some gay boys’ minds.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t there for hot, burly men. I was there because my kitchen cabinet pulls were ugly as sin, and if I had to look at them for another day, I might actually commit a minor act of vandalism against my own home.

I sighed, running my fingers along a row of sleek, modern pulls, trying to look like a man who knew what the hell he was doing.

I did not. I was purely guessing.

Born with the gay decorating gene, I was not, as Yoda might say. I was also not gifted the do-it-yourself gene. Come to think of it, I must’ve skipped the gene lottery. I was basically a walking, talking, reading machine who lacked most other skills requiring coordination or the ability to throw a ball.

Oh, well. Skilled or not, pulls wouldn’t, well, pull themselves, so I returned to fingering knobs.

My mind, however, was very much elsewhere.

Specifically, like some home movie whose projector had gotten stuck playing in a loop, my brain kept replaying the absolutely adorable, flustered mess that was Elliot Hart asking me on a date. Never in a million years would I have thought that mountain of a man could be flustered. Yet, there he’d been, standing at the edge of my lawn with my dog making him his human bitch, struggling to make English his first language.

The whole scene made me giggle right there in front of a scowling man in an orange apron.

I opened a tiny drawer and examined a faux mother-of-pearl pull that looked more like earrings some grandmother might wear than a kitchen accessory. Tossing it back, I grabbed a medieval-looking iron thing that might’ve been used to kill vampires in another time and place.

I sighed, dropping the weapon back in its box and leaning against a display, letting my brain take me places it absolutely should not go—like imagining Elliot sitting at my dinner table, hunky arms folded, watching me cook with that annoyingly hot smirk that made him look amused, intrigued, and possibly pissed off, all at the same time.

God, he had a hot mouth.

Or worse—imagining him in my kitchen helping me cook. Standing behind me, reaching around me to grab a utensil, his body pressing against mine, his breath warm against my ear as he murmured, “You sure you know what you’re doing, Mike?”

Jesus.

I needed to leave immediately—before I took a page from Homer’s book and found a leg to make my Daddy.

Could legs become Daddies? I wasn’t good with gay vernacular. Or nomenclature. Or whatever the fuck queers called things. Damn it, I was an English teacher. Words were my thing. Why did thinking about Elliot Hart steal them from my brain?

I looked up.

And there he was.

Elliot.

At the end of the aisle.

Shopping.

In Home Depot.

In a gray henley that clung to his arms and chest in a way that should be illegal . . . and gray fucking sweatpants.

I froze.

I might’ve piddled . . . a little.

He glanced up, caught me staring, and—because the universe hated me—smirked.

“Hey, neighbor,” he drawled, taking a few slow steps toward me.

I tried to respond, but it came out as some kind of soft, strangled wheeze.

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “You all right?”

“Yep,” I said, entirely too loudly. “Totally normal. Just—uh—shopping.”

Elliot looked pointedly at my empty hands. “For?”

I snatched the medieval dagger thing out of its box and held it up.

“Planning to redecorate your place as a Game of Thrones castle?” He blinked rapidly. “That’s . . . nice?”

I cleared my throat, willing myself to behave like an actual human adult. “It’s for my kitchen. I’m updating the cabinets.”

Elliot nodded, looking mildly impressed. “Nice. You need help picking some out? Maybe something that doesn’t scream, ‘I’m off to kill the White Walkers’?”

I stared at him. “Do you have opinions on cabinet pulls?”

He shrugged. “I fix houses sometimes.”

Of course, he did.

Because he was perfect and could probably fix things with just the power of his presence.

I tossed the GoT knob back in its box before I said something stupid. Elliot, true to his word, helped me sift through the dozens of options, ultimately landing on a set of sleek, modern, silver pulls that would match the faucet well.

“No school today?” he asked.

“I took a half day off. Did my homeroom and first couple of classes, then came here. My principal’s awesome. She’s all about us nesting and getting comfortable. I think it’s part of her strategy to retain teachers by making them so comfy they never want to leave.”

“Huh,” Elliot grunted. “Sounds like a smart lady.”

“I like her well enough.” I shrugged. “What’s your story today? No lines down in this big, bad city of ours?”

He grunted again. What was with that? Was he secretly a gorilla wearing a man suit?

“Worked early,” he said in his Cro-Magnon way with words, which was sexy as fuck, if I was being honest.

I nodded as I double-checked my cart to ensure I’d grabbed the right number of pulls.

“So,” Elliot said, shoving his hands in his pockets and drawing my attention up from my cart. “I was about to grab lunch. You hungry?”

Oh, I was hungry.

For terrible, sinful things that should not be happening in a Home Depot aisle—unless someone wanted to shoot a porn movie about Home Depot and stripping a man’s apron off and bending him over lumber and . . .

Fuck, I needed a cold shower.

Instead, I nodded. “Yeah. Sure. Where?”

“There’s a sandwich shop around the corner.”

Not exactly the most romantic lunch, but I wasn’t about to be picky. I would be eating Elliot . . . shit . . . eating with Elliot.

Eating at a Subway inside a Home Depot parking lot wasn’t exactly where I imagined having lunch with my stupidly handsome neighbor, but who was I to complain?

And yet, there we were.

Me, trying not to read too much into things.

And Elliot?

Casually tearing into his sandwich like he wasn’t single-handedly dismantling my entire ability to function.

“So,” Elliot said, mid-bite. “Are you one of those people who judges sandwich orders?”

I blinked. “What?”

He gestured at my turkey and Swiss on wheat like it was a personal offense.

“You know,” he said. “One of those people who thinks certain sandwiches reveal deep truths about a person.”

I raised my brows. “Oh, you mean like how a guy who orders a plain ham and cheese on white bread with no toppings probably has the personality of a tax accountant?”

“Or a serial killer,” Elliot said without a hint of a smile.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I might need to see what you ordered first before I make a judgment.”

He held up his sandwich like a trophy. “Spicy Italian. Extra banana peppers. Big, juicy banana peppers.”

I nodded, considering, desperate to grasp if he’d just made a sexual innuendo or if my pulsing partner down below was simply betraying his every word. “Okay. So, you like a little heat—a little kick—but you balance it with a safe, reliable base.” I narrowed my eyes. “That tracks.”

Elliot smirked. “Oh yeah? And what does your sandwich say about you, Professor Pastrami?”

I rolled my eyes at the nickname but secretly liked it. “Mine says I’m a man of refined, simple tastes.”

Elliot snorted. “It says you have the taste buds of a child.”

“Excuse me,” I gasped, dramatically offended. “This is a classic sandwich. It’s time-honored. It’s dignified.”

It was his turn to shrug. “It’s boring.”

“It’s safe,” I corrected. “Which, given my history of things going horrifically wrong in public, is a necessary precaution.”

Elliot smirked around another bite. “You do seem like a guy who plays it safe.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And you seem like a guy who eats gas station burritos at 2 a.m.”

He grinned. “I will neither confirm nor deny.”

“God help me. I’m having lunch with an adrenaline junkie.”

Elliot leaned back in the booth, one arm draped casually over the seat, his bicep finding a way to bulge despite his arm being stretched out. “So, Mike Albert, newest resident of our sleepy little cul-de-sac, why Mount Vernon?”

I took a sip of my drink. “I was looking for a change. I liked the school. Plus, I wanted a place where my dog could have a yard.”

Elliot grinned. “The horny little menace?”

“Homer is not a menace,” I said primly. “He is a misunderstood genius.”

“Right,” Elliot said, amused. “That’s why his first instinct upon meeting me was full-scale sexual assault.”

I sighed, rubbing my temple. “Okay, fair. He has . . . enthusiasm.”

“You watch a lot of The Simpsons ?”

“ The Simpsons ?” I asked through a mouthful that refused to break down.

“Homer.”

“Oh!” My eyes widened in recognition. “No, his name isn’t from that show. It’s a baseball thing.”

“Baseball?” His brows bunched like I’d just quoted Macbeth .

“I’m a huge fan. Love the Braves, always have.”

He stared . . . and blinked. I couldn’t tell if he was amused, fascinated, perplexed, or stunned into silence. Then, without so much as a transitionary sentence, he chuckled and took another bite of his sandwich. “So, teacher, huh? Always wanted to do that?”

We needed a subject change bell—one of those little silver desk bells one slaps with a palm whenever he is about to change the subject abruptly. How was I supposed to keep up without causing irreparable damage? Conversational whiplash was a real thing, you know.

“More or less. I’ve always loved books, and I figured forcing teenagers to appreciate literature was a noble calling.”

“And how’s that going so far?”

“I’ve been teaching for over ten years now, so I’m pretty used to it.” I paused, then groaned. “Although, today I learned that certain fifteen-year-olds are terrifying.”

Elliot laughed. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“One of them hit on me. Openly. With all the subtlety of a sledgehammer wearing lipstick.”

Elliot actually choked on his drink.

“Oh yeah. Straight-up flirted. Hell, she did everything except flash her boobs.”

Elliot coughed, wiping his mouth. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.” I sighed. “Her name is Jessica. She twirls her hair a lot. Asked if I was single in front of the whole class.”

Elliot’s grin flared to full wattage. I tried not to swoon. “Jesus. That’s brutal.”

“You’re telling me,” I muttered. “I nearly died on the spot.”

“And what did you say?”

“I deflected like a goddamn pro,” I said proudly. “Redirected the conversation straight to Shakespeare.”

“Nothing kills the mood like old English.” Elliot chuckled. “Smooth, Professor.”

I rolled my eyes. “I can’t believe I’m being harassed in my place of work . . . by a fifteen-year-old girl.”

“Yeah,” Elliot mused, eyes twinkling. “That must be so uncomfortable.”

I squinted at him. “Was that sarcasm?”

His grin widened. “Maybe.”

I pointed a warning finger at him. “Careful. I can still make you read Hamlet out loud in front of a class.”

Elliot smirked. “I’d rather climb a power pole during a lightning storm.”

He tossed back the last bite of sandwich and chased it with a sip of whatever bubbly concoction he’d mixed like a seven-year-old at the fountain machine.

“All right,” Elliot said, crumpling his sandwich wrapper. “Since you picked Mount Vernon, tell me—what’s your actual plan? You staying here long term, or is this just a pit stop?”

I hesitated.

I hadn’t really thought about that. Hell, I’d just moved in. Who thinks about the long term when you’re still living through the near term?

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I mean, I like it so far. I don’t hate the neighborhood.”

“That so?” Elliot tilted his head, amused. “And the neighbors? They treating you all right?”

I took a sip of my drink, casually avoiding eye contact. “The people seem . . . interesting. Homer likes them, especially their legs.”

“Mm-hmm.” Elliot snorted. It was nice seeing him relax his granite-like facade long enough to laugh.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was talking about Mrs. Henderson.”

He laughed again. “Of course, you were.”

I huffed. “You know, she’s very invested in your dating life.”

Elliot groaned and slapped a palm to his face. “Jesus. I know.”

“She tried to set you up with her hairdresser.”

“Yeah. And some guy named Arturo from her church.” He grimaced. “How do you—?”

I nearly spit out my drink. “Wait—Arturo? She tried to set me up with Arturo!”

Elliot shook his head. “Oh, that’s incredible.”

“We need to form a support group.”

“Agreed,” Elliot said. “Rule one—never let her introduce us to anyone new.”

I replied, “Rule two—if she invites us both to dinner at the same time, we’re being set up.”

Elliot smirked. “And rule three?”

I leaned in slightly, just enough to be obnoxious. “Rule three—you owe me a real date, Hart, because this does not count.”

Elliot’s gaze flickered, briefly surprised. Then he grinned. “No?”

“No,” I said. “A Subway sandwich does not a date make, not even to most of my high schoolers.”

Elliot nodded seriously. “Fair enough.”

He leaned back, watching me for a moment.

“You’re not nervous,” he noted.

I frowned. “What?”

“Earlier, you were all flustered,” he said. “Now? Not so much.”

I flushed slightly. “Well. Maybe I’m getting used to you.”

“Good.” Elliot’s lips curled into that slow, dangerous almost-leer. “That’ll come in handy tomorrow night.”

And for the second time in less than an hour, I almost piddled.