“That’s yourbio?” Zoe’s whisper-shouts.
“You’ll have a hundred matches by dinner,” says Charlie.
Tamara shakes her head and leans in, voice low as she glances at Eli to ensure he’s still distracted by hockey talk. “Donotlet Eli see that profile pic.”
“Oh please, he can’t stop me.” Lulu scoffs defiantly.
My fork stabs into my eggs, yolk bleeding across the plate.
“Relax,” Hutchy murmurs without looking at me. “You’re scowling so hard I can hear it.”
I don’t respond. My eyes are still on Lulu as she tips her head back to laugh at something Zoe says about swiping right. She can swipe right on the whole of Denver if she wants, not my problem.
Eventually, the kids start scattering toward the backyard, squealing with glee as Chase runs after them. Eli and Jake are clearing plates, and Tamara’s corralling Theo before he can take a nosedive off Charlie’s lap. I push back from the table just as Lulu does, our chairs scraping in unison.
We walk toward the back door together, the buzz of brunch fading behind us.
“Congrats on the house,” I say.
“Thanks.” She glances up, lip caught in a sheepish grin. “I promise Iwasgoing to tell you.”
I shrug, feigning apathy. “You can live wherever you like.”
Her eyes twinkle as she nudges me with her elbow. “And I promise to keep the noise down.”
That won’t be hard if you keep dating losers.
“Optimistic. You’ve got a laugh like a foghorn.”
She feigns a gasp. “Good thing we all know youloveearly wake-up calls, Pookie.”
The nickname grates and pulls in the same breath, especially from her lips. “One of these days, that name’s gonna cost you.”
She tilts her head, all fake innocence. “Looking forward to seeing how you collect.”
Her smile flashes slyly, then she turns toward the backyard, hips moving in that damn floral skirt with a rhythm my eyes shouldn’t chase. My jaw flexes as they do anyway.
Eli’s sister. Myteammate’s sister. Myalternate captain’s sister.
The universe couldn’t script a bigger red flag to follow.
So I stay put, because I know better.
Or at least, I’m supposed to.
Chapter three
Man’s got thighs that could crack a walnut
Lulu
By the time the movers wrestle my bookcase through the door, I’m running on fumes. It’s Thursday, which means I’ve survived four days of September chaos so far. Eleven-year-olds hopped up on Capri Suns, one mom convinced social media is an appropriate teaching tool, and a kid named Caleb who has perfected the art of fake-fainting to avoid math. On top of that, the PTA sent me anurgentemail about a kid with “glitter allergies,” and my inbox is full of passive-aggressive reminders about lesson plans. My feet ache, my patience is hanging by a thread, and I smell like Expo markers.
But none of it matters. Because this afternoon is finally mine, and I’m doing it. I’m moving into my first real home.
“Hey, Miss Parnell,” one of the movers calls as he passes me on the porch, his biceps straining under his T-shirt. “You need help unpacking later? We work for pizza and beer.”
His buddy sets down a box with a thump and flashes me a wink. “Or Netflix and heavy lifting. We’re flexible.”
