Page 31 of Falling For You

Broad shoulders. Arms that showed every hour at the gym. Calluses across my palms that never softened no matter what I did. I turned slightly and caught my scar. A thin raised line that hadn't faded. My body was strong, capable, built from years of running and lifting and jiu-jitsu. The body of a cop.

You've got calluses and a braid you pin up so tight nobody can grab it. That's who you are. You dress like a man, Andy. You think like a man. Some days I think you're more of a man than I am.

Elliot's voice arrived without warning. It always found me when I was alone, quiet, the armor off and nothing between me and the things I was trying not to feel.

Only small men diminish women that way.

Diana's voice cut clean through his.

He didn't deserve you.

I sat with that for a moment. Two voices in my head, and for the first time since I'd walked out of Elliot's apartment, his wasn't the loudest.

I picked up my laptop and opened a browser.

Diana was right. Who was Elliot Handler to tell me what I could and couldn't pull off? So what if I had a little more muscle than the average woman? It didn't make me any less of one.

I scrolled through pages of lingerie. Black lace. Delicate. Beautiful. I picked a set, entered my name, my address, and my card number. My fingers moved fast. On purpose. Because if I slowed down even for a second, I'd close the tab and talk myself out of it, and I was tired of talking myself out of the things I wanted.

I hit confirm.

I threw on sweats and heated up Sunday's meal prep. While the microwave ran, I leaned against the counter, took a sip of water, and tapped the confirmation email open.

The delivery address said 823. I blinked. Read it again. I lived at 824. I entered the number too fast. I was one digit off, one house over, directly across the street.

My lingerie was being delivered to Wyatt Brooks's front porch.

The delivery was arriving on my day off. That was the one piece of luck I had, because it meant I could set up camp on the porch with my Kindle and a cup of coffee. All I had to do was grab the box before the delivery guy brought it to the wrong door.

The delivery window was between ten and two. It was eleven-fifteen. Every vehicle that turned onto the block sent my pulse up a notch.

Across the street, Wyatt Brooks chose this particular morning to mow his lawn. In joggers. Without a shirt. I was trying to intercept a private delivery and the universe decided to put a shirtless firefighter twenty feet from my front porch. I could see the sweat running down his back every time he turned at the end of a row, and I wanted to scream.

I stared at my Kindle. Read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word. Then I felt it. The unmistakable pressure of needing to use the bathroom. I shifted on the chair. The delivery truck hadn't come yet. I could hold it. I could absolutely hold it.

Wyatt looked up from the mower and raised his hand in a wave. The annoyance crept back in. I waved back without smiling. I set my Kindle down. What were the chances of the delivery guy coming in the three minutes it would take me to use the toilet?

High, apparently. Very high. Because when I stepped back onto the porch, a delivery truck was turning the corner at the far end of the block. Already leaving.

I looked at my doorstep. Empty.

I looked across the street.

Wyatt was on his porch with a box in his hands and he was already pulling at the tape.

CHAPTER 11

The Package

WYATT

The lawn was overdue. I'd been putting it off all week. The grass was getting tall enough that Barb would notice, and once Barb noticed, she'd say something, and once she said something, I'd feel like I was eighteen and getting lectured about chores.

It was already ninety by mid-morning. I pulled my shirt off and started the mower.

Across the street, Andy Walsh was on her porch with her Kindle. Legs up on the railing, braid over one shoulder. She'd been doing this on her days off since she moved in, and I still wasn't used to it.

I pushed the mower to the end of the row and turned back. Glanced across the street. Her shoulders were bare above the neckline of her shirt. I looked at the grass. Pushed another row. Glanced again. Every time I told myself to stop looking, I looked anyway. She shifted in her chair, tucking one leg under the other, and I almost ran the mower into the flower bed.