I text a pic to Charlotte. “Which shoes?”
“You look hot! The strappy heel on your left foot.”
“You sure? You don’t like the boot on the right foot?”
“I’m sure!”
I kick off the boot and slip on the other heel as the doorbell rings.
“He’s here! I’ll let you know how it goes.”
When I open the door, it’s not Finn, it’s June, my landlord. She isn’t quite as funny or as huggable or as prone to sugar-coating as Granny Mae, but she’s basically been my stand-in for the last few years.
“Hi, Chloe.” She gives me a once-over. “Are you going out?” One of the disadvantages of living on June’s property is there’s this unspoken thing happening where she kind of keeps tabs on me.
“Yes, I have a date.”
Her thin brows rise nearly to her salt and pepper hair. “Oh, well, I don’t want to ruin your date.”
“No, it’s okay. What’s up?”
“Well, I’m selling the house and moving to Florida to be near my daughter.”
I blink and step onto the porch. “That’s great...and unexpected.”
“Don’t worry, dear. If it sells fast, whoever buys it will give you thirty days to move out. I’ll make sure it’s in writing.”
I want to throw myself at her orthopedic shoes and beg her to stay here in Colorado. But I know from our numerous tea parties over the years I’ve lived here, she misses her daughter the same way I miss Granny. My unselfish side wins.
“No worries. I’ll start looking for something else.”
“Okay, dear. Have fun on your date.” She pats my arm. “Make sure you stop by for tea and give me the details.”
“Will do.”
She waddles across the lawn back to her house, and I drop down onto the porch swing. The universe is punishing me for thinking I lived in a tiny house. Like, “You think that’s small? Well, let’s see how you like this cardboard box.”
Not only is this place ideal because it has a back porch where I can make my pottery, it’s cheaper than most apartments. Plus, I love June. I’m in the middle of apologizing to my cottage for the slight when the purr of an engine interrupts me.
Finn.
His sleek black SUV parks next to my Honda.
“Hey,” I call out.
“Wow,” he says, climbing the steps, “you get better every time I see you.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, “Same, SuperFit, same.”
He chuckles and leans against the railing. “This is a nice place. It suits you.”
Don’t remind me. “Yeah, I love it here.”
“Ready?” he asks.
Is it bad I don’t offer him a tour? It seems too soon. It’s trivial, but Austin is the only man who has been inside my home. Maybe I should invite Finn in, just to show I’m moving on from my crush.
“Be right back,” I say.
He waits on the porch while I grab my handbag and keys, and I can only hope this date makes up for the bombshell June dropped on me.
So far, so good. Even though it’s a little weird. I’m all for buffets, especially ones with a dessert bar, but is it normal to eat nine plates? I’m in no way judging Finn’s voracious appetite, but where does he keep it all? Does he have an extra stomach?
“Wow, you’re still going.” I’ve been done for forty minutes, and he’s got yet another mountain of lean meats and greens.
“Bulking up, babe. We’ve got a competition at SuperFit I’m gonna win.”
I’m guessing “babe” is the chosen pet name. As far as nicknames go, I’ve never had a man use one. It’s got an alpha vibe, and... I’m into it. A lot. I don’t know myself at all, it turns out. My personal history hadn’t prepared me for the surprises to come.
He details the competition, and it sounds a bit like torture, honestly.
“What does the winner get?”
“A trophy.”
“Oh, wow. I’d want cash for all that work.”
“I’ve got plenty of cash.” Must be nice. He places the hand not eating on my knee. “You should come see me compete.”
This is good. He’s making future plans, and we haven’t even kissed. “Okay, I’ll go to your competition, and you can come to my spring thing.”
“What spring thing?”
While I explain to him the upcoming craft fair, he shovels in the rest of his food.
“Sounds interesting.”
I’m not sure if he means that, and it’s not a commitment, but I get it. Craft fairs aren’t for everyone. Austin is a trooper and goes along with me and Charlotte, but maybe it’s for the kettle corn. It’s divine. Austin always sneaks and buys a jumbo bag for me to take home.
I have to know, “Do you like kettle corn?”
“It’s a little too sweet for me. I prefer plain.”
“Plain as in no butter?”
“Yeah.” He finally finishes his meal and leans in. “Is the popcorn a deal breaker?”
I laugh, but maybe. “You like what you like.”
“Do you like me more than kettle corn?”
What kind of question is this? “Are you asking me to give up kettle corn?”
He chuckles. “No, but I think I could satisfy you more than kettle corn.”
Finn has thrown down the gauntlet and I don’t know what to say back. I let the blush speak for itself, as recommended. Plus, the waitress arrives to refill our lemon water. By the time she leaves, it’s much too late to go back to his comment with something flirtatious.
On the ride home, we discuss music, and he plays his favorite songs. I never would’ve pegged him for classical. Mozart and Beethoven fill the cabin and whoa, I’m turned on as his fingers dance across an imaginary piano.
As far as the seat belt will allow, I lean toward him, chin in hand on the armrest. “Do you play piano?”
“A little.”
Well, that’s enough for me. The soft light of the moon shades him in artistic shadows, and I could almost see a vision of me preferring him over kettle corn.
He pulls into my driveway and parks.
“So, you think you’ll come see me compete?”
“I don’t know. What’s in it for me?” He opens and closes his mouth a couple times, and I realize he doesn’t know I’m flirting. “Like…do I get to see your abs?”
“Oh.” Without breaking eye contact, he lifts his shirt in a slow tease, and holy wow, he is ripped. I’ve never seen this in real life. I tentatively touch the etches on his stomach. They feel…huh. So weird. Like iron encased in velvet.
“You could have your own, you know.”
His raspy voice tears my gaze from his stomach. “Oh, I don’t think…”
“I could be your trainer.” He grazes his teeth along his lower lip, and maybe this fitness talk is foreplay.
“Oh, yeah? You’d…spot me?” I know very few workout innuendos.
“I’d spot you a mile away.”
With a groan, his hand grasps my neck, pulling me closer. And then I get my kiss. Our tongues collide and somehow I’m straddling his lap. His massive hard-on rocks into me.