“Hold the elevator.”
Mother of balls.
“Almost missed you,” Elliot says with a slightly bashful smile, a large duffel in his hand.
He’s wearing a backwards baseball cap, a stretched-out black tank and green shorts with pink flamingos that show off his insanely developed thighs.
“A little cold for those, isn’t it?”
Now he knows what you’re looking at.
“I’ll be working up too much of a sweat to notice.” He glances down at them with a laugh. “You don’t have to say it, I know they’re crazy. I took Rue shopping last week and she picked them out for me. My first official pair of Dad shorts.”
Kryptonite in human form.
I have not passed the test. Mission opposite of accomplished, and it’s all his fault for continuously saying things that make it impossible for me to resist him. If he doesn’t find a place with a backyard swing soon, I’ll need to move before I do something really stupid.
Leg-cramp stupid?
Worse.
I force myself not to stare at his body. Eyes, not thighs.
He frowns at my tower of tubs. “Those look heavy. Why didn’t you knock on my door for help? Or call down to Mr. G? He has a trolley cart.”
“Now you tell me.” I stretch, groaning when my back cracks. “I’m not used to that. My last apartment had a landlord who never answered his door. I’m not kidding, I was there for ten years and I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup.”
Elliot smirks. “Mr. G isn’t like that. I think he’s in a league of his own. I’ve been on the road for years and spent my share of time in hotels with staff that seemed to know what I needed before I did. He makes them look like amateurs.”
On the road? I bite my tongue to remind myself I’ve already used up my allotment of nosy neighbor for the week. Anyway, the more I talk the more he’ll talk and then I’ll have to miss breakfast to take another shower because his voice drives me crazy. Don’t make me spell it out for you.
M-A-S-T-U-R—
His hand goes to the back I’m still stretching and I hold my breath until he does something amazing.
“Oh God,” I moan, my head hitting the steel wall as his fingers dig in. “I can’t—what are you—right there.”
Elliot chuckles softly near my ear. “That’s usually what I’m thinking when my PT does this for me. I figured your back would be sore after bending over boxes all night and then hauling these around.”
“You’re the best neighbor in the world.” With no awareness of personal space at all. And now I have that problem again. Damn it. “But if you don’t stop, I won’t be able to get to my appointments.”
He hesitates before dropping his hand. “Busy day of nanny wrangling?”
I adjust my messenger bag before straightening up. I wonder if this is why these bags were invented. I can imagine the sales pitch now. It’s a guy purse. To hide those pesky public erections. Make them out of leather and we’ll all be rich!
“You could say that. What about you? On your way to pick up Rue in your flashy flamingo-wear?”
Elliot’s hands flex, and he glances toward the doors before shrugging. “Her cousin invited her to a morning matinee and she really wanted to go. I thought I’d take the time to head to the cages and give my arm a workout before picking her up.”
Cages now? Are we talking dungeons and cock cages? Because that is where I instantly go and the imagery is not helpful.
Based on his grin it’s written all over my face. “Batting cages. I’m starting to think you know as much about baseball as I do about music.”
“I know it exists,” I say defensively. “And I’ve seen Kevin Costner movies.”
They’re all about baseball, aren’t they?
I actually know more about sex dungeons. From reading, as opposed to personal experience. I torture myself enough, thanks.
When he doesn’t respond, I scrape the bottom of my knowledge barrel. “My brother Craig played on his high school team and his son plays the little version. Oh, and we aren’t allowed to call him or come over during the last games. Even his wife goes to visit her parents around this time every year.”
That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.
“The last games? You mean The World series?” he chokes out.
“That’s what he calls them.” I frown, wondering if I should pat his back. “Are you okay? Did you swallow wrong?”
“Only my pride. I’m a little surprised that you have—what did you say?—three hundred and forty-six kids in your care, and you don’t know more about our national pastime.”
My hackles rise. “We all have our specialties. The agency has always encouraged athletics and team-related activities. We sponsor several charity games a year and partner with the Special Olympics. All I know about rugby is that I’m a sucker for the All Blacks haka dance, but one of our nannies used to be a fairly well-known player.”