I laugh because it’s been a week of stress, and the attention feels nice, even if I know better. “That’s a generous offer. But I should warn you—I don’t share snacks, and I’ve got questionable taste in reality TV. Deal breaker?”
The first one smirks. “We’ll take our chances.”
It’s harmless, the kind of flirting that doesn’t leave a mark, but I still file them underpossibilities. Isn’t that the point of this whole dating thing? I’ve got three more app dates lined up over this coming week, and I’m already bracing for more men who talk exclusively about their crypto losses or think queso counts as a food group. But hey, at least I’m trying.
I open my mouth to ask what kind of pizza they like, when the squeak of a door hinge next door cuts through the air, the wind chime hanging above it jingling merrily.
Out steps a woman in neatly pressed khakis and a pale-pink blouse, pearls glinting at her throat. Her silver hair is curled into a perfect helmet, and for a second, I brace for a lecture about hedge heights and garbage bins.
Instead, she marches across her lawn and plants herself at the stoop of my porch, a hand moving to her hip as she squints at the movers.
“Good grief. I’ve seen toddlers carry toys with more coordination. Are you two allergic to competence, or just trying to impress her with your biceps?”
Both men falter, and the woman’s eyes snap to mine, sharp but amused. She takes a step up, extending a hand. “You must be my new neighbor. I’m Betty.”
I take her hand, startled by the grip of steel hidden in her dainty, ring-adorned fingers.
“So nice to meet you, Betty.” I tip my head, letting a grin tug at my mouth. “Are you Neighborhood Watch?”
She huffs a chuckle. “Yeah, from my upstairs window. I’ve got a better view than Homeland Security. So yes, I can see into your backyard, and no, I don’t plan on minding my business.”
I can’t decide if I want to hide behind my remaining boxes or ask if she takes applications for an apprentice.
Betty leans in, voice dropping to a stage whisper that carries across the porch. “That one”—she nods toward the taller mover—“has a ring tan line. Wife, ex-wife, or both. Baggage. And him?” She flicks her eyes to the one who winked at me minutes ago. “Lord help us, he’s practically still in college. Bet he calls his mother when he runs out of detergent. Trouble either way.”
The movers blink, caught between offended and terrified. I snort before I can help it, chewing the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning too wide.
Betty pats my arm, satisfied. “You’re a stunner.” A pause, then she smirks. “And frankly, it’s wasted on these two clowns.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I manage, still grinning.
“Sugarplum, you don’t need confidence. You needdiscernment. And I’ve got sixty-eight years of it.”
The mover with the ring tan line clears his throat, mumbling something about another box in the truck, and makes a hasty retreat. His friend follows, not quite as smooth this time.
Betty watches them go, then leans in on a murmur. “Now, if youwanteda fling, I say go for it. But if you’re actually trying to date…” Her eyes flick over me, sharp and mischievous. “You’re better off with your phone than the back of a moving truck.”
She’s not wrong.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and wave it. “Already on it. I’ve got three dates lined up this week. One tomorrow night, actually.”
Betty whistles low. “Ambitious. I like it. Where’s the lucky fella taking you?”
“To a taco truck. Which, given my luck, probably doubles as a pyramid scheme.”
She cackles. “Don’t you worry, Sugarplum. You’ll find someone who sees you for exactly who you are.” Her gaze softens for half a beat, surprising me after all the theatrics. Then, as if she can’t stand her own sincerity, she snaps back to mischief. “And if not, I’ve got a wine fridge and a back porch. We’ll plot their demise together.”
My grin stretches wider, and I’m about to tell her how much I love her, when the low rumble of an overpriced SUV rounds the corner.
Logan Miller’s black truck rolls to a stop across the street, shining in the afternoon sun as though it’s never touched dust. He climbs out with his duffel slung over one shoulder, hair damp from practice, shoulders broad enough to blot out the sun. He looks annoyingly good, and I tell myself not to look.
I look anyway.
His eyes cut to mine and linger, then slide to the movers, and finally to Betty, who’s still perched at my side. He takes a few long strides to cross the street until he’s close enough that the movers straighten and eye him curiously.
“You planning on blocking traffic all day, Parnell?” His voice is gravelly as he jerks his chin at the truck.
I tip my chin up. “Why? Got somewhere to be? Or do you just enjoy glaring at people with a full schedule?”
