Page 13 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

She pops her head back around the corner, holding a glass of chocolate milk in one hand and a cookie in the other. Like a snack goddess. “You offering to screw something for me already, Blake? Wow. That was fast.”

My brain bluescreens. “I, I meant the light,” I stammer. “The porch light. Outside. It’s dark. And unsafe. Like, murder-y dark.”

She snorts and leans against the wall, clearly enjoying my internal collapse. “I know. It’s great, right? Makes me feel like I’m in a horror movie every time I come home. Adds ambiance.”

“Let me fix it,” I say. “You got a bulb? I can grab one from my place.”

“I dunno. You got a ladder? A wrench? A license for those arms?” she asks as she nods to a small closet.

Did she just? She totally did.

“Okay,” I say, mostly to myself, pulling out a bulb from the box. “that’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?” she calls as I back out the door toward the lightbulb.

“That you’re this quick and that pretty,” I say under my breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!”

The bulb’s easy. I pull her wobbly porch chair over to reach it. It’s not OSHA-approved but I’m six-three and stubborn, so it works. I’m just finishing up when the door creaks open behind me.

“You know,” she drawls, “if this whole handyman gig doesn’t work out, you could make a killing modeling Carhartt ads for single moms with repressed fantasies.”

I nearly fall off the chair. I grip the doorframe like it’s a lifeline and say nothing, because my voice is 100% not trustworthy right now.

“Sorry,” she adds, not sorry at all. “It’s just that your entire ass is out here doing the Lord’s work, and I’d be remiss not to appreciate it.”

I’m going to die. Right here on her porch, humiliated and semi-aroused, with a half-twisted lightbulb in my hand and a woman behind me talking about my ass like she’s writing an Amazon review. Because Jesus. My brain tries to reboot while my dick’s already planning our wedding. If she asked to bite it, I’d say yes before she finished the sentence.

“I… appreciate the feedback,” I manage.

“Oh, don’t get shy now,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “I already invited you in and fed you. You’re basically on date one.”

I finish tightening the bulb, jump down, and face her. Her eyes are wicked, amused, and still dancing with mischief. I wipe my hands on my jeans and try not to think about what it would be like to pin her against that doorway.

“I should head out,” I say, which is a lie, because I want to stay forever.

She nods, slowly. “Sure. Wouldn’t want to risk you getting in trouble with your real girlfriend.”

That derails my train of thought. “I don’t, what? No, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

She smiles wider. “Good to know. It wouldn’t be nice to bring donuts to your neighbor if you did.”

I should walk away. But I just stand there like an idiot with heart eyes and the warm fuzzies of someone who just accidentally flirted his way into a fantasy he’s not cool enough to handle.

Then she says, “Thanks for the light, Blake.”

“You ever need a shelf put up, or another lightbulb changed, or... y’know... just company and donuts, I’m around.” and mean it way too hard.

“You offering handyman services or emotional support?”

Is she flirting? That was flirting, right? Or was that just casual chaos? She’s like a sexy hurricane. How do you flirt back with a hurricane?

“Both. Also I fix dishwashers.”

I make it halfway down the sidewalk before I remember how to breathe. Like really breathe, in through the nose, out through the mouth, not just survive on leftover donut fumes and lust.

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