Chapter 3
Chapter three
Man’s got thighs that could crack a walnut
Lulu
By the time the movers wrestle my bookcase through the door, I’m running on fumes.
It’s Thursday, which means I’ve survived four days of September chaos so far.
Eleven-year-olds hopped up on Capri Suns, one mom convinced social media is an appropriate teaching tool, and a kid named Caleb who has perfected the art of fake-fainting to avoid math.
On top of that, the PTA sent me an urgent email about a kid with “glitter allergies,” and my inbox is full of passive-aggressive reminders about lesson plans.
My feet ache, my patience is hanging by a thread, and I smell like Expo markers.
But none of it matters. Because this afternoon is finally mine, and I’m doing it. I’m moving into my first real home.
“Hey, Miss Parnell,” one of the movers calls as he passes me on the porch, his biceps straining under his T-shirt. “You need help unpacking later? We work for pizza and beer.”
His buddy sets down a box with a thump and flashes me a wink. “Or Netflix and heavy lifting. We’re flexible.”
I laugh because it’s been a week of stress, and the attention feels nice, even if I know better. “That’s a generous offer. But I should warn you—I don’t share snacks, and I’ve got questionable taste in reality TV. Deal breaker?”
The first one smirks. “We’ll take our chances.”
It’s harmless, the kind of flirting that doesn’t leave a mark, but I still file them under possibilities.
Isn’t that the point of this whole dating thing?
I’ve got three more app dates lined up over this coming week, and I’m already bracing for more men who talk exclusively about their crypto losses or think queso counts as a food group. But hey, at least I’m trying.
I open my mouth to ask what kind of pizza they like, when the squeak of a door hinge next door cuts through the air, the wind chime hanging above it jingling merrily.
Out steps a woman in neatly pressed khakis and a pale-pink blouse, pearls glinting at her throat. Her silver hair is curled into a perfect helmet, and for a second, I brace for a lecture about hedge heights and garbage bins.
Instead, she marches across her lawn and plants herself at the stoop of my porch, a hand moving to her hip as she squints at the movers.
“Good grief. I’ve seen toddlers carry toys with more coordination. Are you two allergic to competence, or just trying to impress her with your biceps?”
Both men falter, and the woman’s eyes snap to mine, sharp but amused. She takes a step up, extending a hand. “You must be my new neighbor. I’m Betty.”
I take her hand, startled by the grip of steel hidden in her dainty, ring-adorned fingers.
“So nice to meet you, Betty.” I tip my head, letting a grin tug at my mouth. “Are you Neighborhood Watch?”
She huffs a chuckle. “Yeah, from my upstairs window. I’ve got a better view than Homeland Security. So yes, I can see into your backyard, and no, I don’t plan on minding my business.”
I can’t decide if I want to hide behind my remaining boxes or ask if she takes applications for an apprentice.
Betty leans in, voice dropping to a stage whisper that carries across the porch.
“That one”—she nods toward the taller mover—“has a ring tan line. Wife, ex-wife, or both. Baggage. And him?” She flicks her eyes to the one who winked at me minutes ago.
“Lord help us, he’s practically still in college.
Bet he calls his mother when he runs out of detergent. Trouble either way.”
The movers blink, caught between offended and terrified. I snort before I can help it, chewing the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning too wide.
Betty pats my arm, satisfied. “You’re a stunner.” A pause, then she smirks. “And frankly, it’s wasted on these two clowns.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I manage, still grinning.
“Sugarplum, you don’t need confidence. You need discernment. And I’ve got sixty-eight years of it.”
The mover with the ring tan line clears his throat, mumbling something about another box in the truck, and makes a hasty retreat. His friend follows, not quite as smooth this time.
Betty watches them go, then leans in on a murmur. “Now, if you wanted a fling, I say go for it. But if you’re actually trying to date…” Her eyes flick over me, sharp and mischievous. “You’re better off with your phone than the back of a moving truck.”
She’s not wrong.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and wave it. “Already on it. I’ve got three dates lined up this week. One tomorrow night, actually.”
Betty whistles low. “Ambitious. I like it. Where’s the lucky fella taking you?”
“To a taco truck. Which, given my luck, probably doubles as a pyramid scheme.”
She cackles. “Don’t you worry, Sugarplum.
You’ll find someone who sees you for exactly who you are.
” Her gaze softens for half a beat, surprising me after all the theatrics.
Then, as if she can’t stand her own sincerity, she snaps back to mischief.
“And if not, I’ve got a wine fridge and a back porch. We’ll plot their demise together.”
My grin stretches wider, and I’m about to tell her how much I love her, when the low rumble of an overpriced SUV rounds the corner.
Logan Miller’s black truck rolls to a stop across the street, shining in the afternoon sun as though it’s never touched dust. He climbs out with his duffel slung over one shoulder, hair damp from practice, shoulders broad enough to blot out the sun.
He looks annoyingly good, and I tell myself not to look.
I look anyway.
His eyes cut to mine and linger, then slide to the movers, and finally to Betty, who’s still perched at my side. He takes a few long strides to cross the street until he’s close enough that the movers straighten and eye him curiously.
“You planning on blocking traffic all day, Parnell?” His voice is gravelly as he jerks his chin at the truck.
I tip my chin up. “Why? Got somewhere to be? Or do you just enjoy glaring at people with a full schedule?”
One brow raises. “Pretty sure two guys moving your junk doesn’t count as a full schedule.”
“Bold words from a guy whose job is literally to glide on ice and get hit in the face.”
His mouth twitches. “Difference is, I get paid for it.”
I sigh loudly, pressing a hand to my chest. “Wow. And here I thought you played hockey for the love of the game. Silly me.”
His eyes narrow just a fraction. “Love doesn’t keep the lights on, Parnell.”
A low hum rolls across my lips. “Mm. Funny, most people turn them off when they’re doing the love thing.”
Logan goes still for a beat, jaw ticking to grind back a response.
I grin wider, pleased at the tiny crack in his armor. This is our rhythm—him trying to be stoic, me refusing to let him.
Betty claps her hands suddenly, making us both jump. “Finally! He actually speaks. Eight months across the street, and this is the first conversation I’ve heard. I assume you know this beautiful creature, Mr. Miller?”
Logan’s eyes shoot to mine. “Unfortunately,” he says at the same time I chirp, “Of course.”
Betty’s grin widens. “Well, why the heck aren’t you dating him then? Man’s got thighs that could crack a walnut, Sugarplum. Don’t waste that sort of gift.”
My jaw drops, and Logan slowly blinks, caught for once without a comeback.
The movers snicker, and the tall one mutters, “Guess we’re out of the running for pizza night.”
Logan’s head swivels toward them, slow and lethal. “Pizza night?”
“Just, uh…” The winky one clears his throat. “Offering to help her unpack.”
Logan doesn’t even bother disguising the skepticism in his tone. “Right.”
The word curls maddeningly low in my stomach, because I know exactly why he’s bristling.
Eli would’ve told him to keep an eye on me, like I’m still the little sister who needs protecting instead of a grown woman who can manage her own damn life.
I can practically see the calculation in Logan’s head: harmless flirtation versus duty to my overbearing brother.
“Relax, Miller.” I roll my eyes, but my pulse betrays me. “They were just being nice.”
His eyes flick back to mine again, so damn sure, and the zing that shoots through me is both infuriating and impossible to ignore.
“Sure they were.”
Betty chortles, and I turn around abruptly, shuffling boxes just to have something to do with my hands, but the thought won’t let go.
I hate the idea of being supervised, like I’m a kid with training wheels.
And yes, I know Eli’s protectiveness comes from love, but it’s suffocating.
I don’t want a babysitter. And I definitely don’t want Logan Miller playing that role.
The movers reappear at the door, mumbling excuses about another job, and I wave them off, secretly relieved because the last thing I need is them trying to flex harder under Logan’s stormy glare.
Which is when I realize they haven’t moved my floor-length mirror in, and it’s still propped up against the porch railing.
“Guess I’ll drag it in myself,” I mutter, tilting my head as I eye it, weighing up the dimensions.
Before I can bend to grab it, Logan’s bag thuds onto the porch floorboards. “You’ll scratch the frame if you try that alone.”
I blink. “Was that an offer to help?”
He doesn’t answer, just grabs one end.
“Wow,” I say, wrapping my fingers around the other side. “Chivalry isn’t dead after all. It just lives across the street and glares a lot.”
“Less talking, Parnell. Stairs.”
“Don’t drop it!” Betty sing-songs as she watches us, utterly unbothered. “It’ll be hard to explain the seven years of bad luck when you two inevitably get married.”
Logan’s jaw flexes. I bite down a grin.
The mirror is heavier than it looks, the kind of awkward shape that makes our knuckles brush every other step. My breath hitches in a stupid and involuntary way whenever his skin touches mine, and I’m grateful he’s too focused on the task to look at my blushing face.