Page 5 of Across the Boards

“When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”

“It is ridiculous.”

We stare at each other for a moment, a standoff of stubbornness. Then I catch sight of Mrs. Abernathy walking her poodle down the street, her eyes practically popping out of her head at the sight of a half-naked man on my doorstep.

“Get inside,” I mutter, stepping back. “Before the neighborhood watch calls the police.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” he says, brushing past me. The scent of his cologne mingles with sweat in a way that shouldn’t be appealing but somehow is.

“I’m a reluctant Samaritan,” I correct, closing the door firmly. “There’s a difference.”

He stands in my kitchen looking both out of place and strangely at home. Like a golden retriever in a library—wrong setting, but too endearing to be truly disruptive.

“Coffee?” I offer, against my better judgment.

“God, yes.” His relief is palpable. “I haven’t had decent coffee since?—”

“Since you moved in three weeks ago and insisted your fancy Italian machine was better than ‘manual labor’?” I grab a mug from the cabinet. “I remember the speech.”

He has the grace to look embarrassed. “You heard that?”

“The walls are thin.” I pour him a cup, sliding it across the counter. “And you’re not exactly quiet.”

“So I’ve been told.” Something in his tone makes me glance up, catching the mischief in his eyes.

“Don’t.” I point a warning finger at him. “It’s too early for innuendo.”

“I didn’t say anything!” His innocent act needs work.

“You were thinking it.”

“True.” He takes a sip of coffee and closes his eyes in what can only be described as caffeinated ecstasy. “Oh my god, this is amazing.”

I try not to feel smug and fail miserably. “I know.”

The doorbell rings again, and this time it has to be Sarah. Great. Exactly what I need—my best friend meeting the half-naked hockey player in my kitchen before 8 AM on my birthday.

“That’s Sarah,” I explain, already moving toward the door. “My friend with the pastries.”

“Should I...” He gestures vaguely toward my patio doors. “Make myself scarce?”

“Too late for that.” I pull open the front door to find Sarah holding a pink bakery box and wearing the biggest grin I’ve seen since her wedding day.

“Happy—” Her words die as her gaze fixes on something—someone—over my shoulder. “Birthday?” she finishes, her voice rising with delighted suspicion.

“It’s not what you think,” I say immediately.

“It never is with you.” She sweeps past me, eyes locked on Brody. “Well, hello there Mr. Carter.”

“Hi Sarah,” Brody sounds almost sheepish. “I’m Elliot’s neighbor.”

“And I’m her best friend.” Sarah’s giving me a look that promises a thorough interrogation. “And the occasional voice of reason.”

“Occasional is right,” I mutter, closing the door.

“Oh yeah?” Brody’s expression brightens. “Tommy did mention something about you being friends with?—”

“Friends with who?” I prompt, suspicious now.

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