That is, until ten months ago, when his run of perfection ended with a series of large transactions that stunk of a nastybreakup. Amounts down to the penny for “Security deposit,” “Couch—half,” and “Cancun cancellation.”
Something a bit like shame rolled over Lainey’s skin as she snooped. She slunk deeper into her covers and scrolled up to the top of Elliot’s Venmo profile to tap Pay.
Lainey Davis paid Elliot Hodges $870
Memo: For my migraine medication. My forehead thanks you.
Twenty minutes later, once Lainey was finally in her pajamas and back in bed for the night, she saw he’d left a comment on the transaction.
Elliot Hodges: Tell your forehead I said you’re welcome.
Chapter 4
Our Mutual, Imaginary Katie
65 Days until Busy Season
Lainey wasn’t surewho she expected to be knocking on her front door the next morning, but it certainly wasn’t Elliot Hodges.
She cracked open the door and squinted at the man on her porch, willing herself to wake up.
“Morning,” he said, dipping his head to meet her sleepy eyeline. He’d swapped the jacket for a beige crewneck sweatshirt with a bit of white T-shirt poking out the top. He was holding a box wrapped in gold-and-white striped paper. It looked neat, professional.
She peered down at her chest. Most of her pajamas existed somewhere in the clothing-to-upcycled-rags pipeline, and this particular threadbare number was about three washes away from meeting a pair of fabric shears. She preemptively folded her arms over her chest.
“It’s me,” he explained when she didn’t respond. “Elliot Hodges.”
“Jesus, Elliot. I remember you!”
“Sorry. I…” His sentence trailed off. “I think we got off onthe wrong foot.” He lurked on her porch, like a vampire waiting to be invited in.
She wrapped her arms tighter. “Is that a human head?”
He sighed. “Do youthinkit’s a human head?”
She narrowed her eyes on the box. It was the completely wrong shape, but she wasn’t sure what else called for a hand delivery from her sworn enemy so early in the morning.
He lifted it up an inch. “It’s a gift. A peace offering. I’m calling for a ceasefire.”
The corners of her mouth lifted. “Ah, so it’s a white flag. You surrender.”
His eyelids fluttered shut with what could only be profound irritation. “Just open it.”
“Can I get dressed first?”
His eyes took in the length of her, and there it was—that flicker of interest—but in a second, it was gone.
“Sure.” He let out a roughened throat clear that inched up her spine and sent goose bumps down her arms. That simple sound from Elliot was as affecting as a physical touch would’ve been from anyone else. The truth of this realization annoyed her.
Before he could observe the way his reflexive vocalizations disrupted her nervous system, he took about ten paces back and waited patiently.
After she’d changed into a roomy sweater and jeans, she found him in her backyard, scowling at a ceramic planter she’d sculpted several years back, shaped as the bust of a man with flowers blooming from his skull. Lainey might have been a debatably talented ceramicist, but she was an inarguably horrific gardener, and the flowers had wilted into what looked like a cautionary display of the effects of scalp leprosy.
“Like what you see?” She was joking. Obviously.
“I’m not sure.” He eyed the piece with more genuine consideration than she’d expected. “It’s certainly…provocative.”
His assessment was nearly a compliment. “Do I get to open the box now?”
