Page 37 of Across the Boards

But it is, apparently. After two more failed attempts, I give up and pull out my phone to search for tutorials.

Twenty minutes and six YouTube videos later, I’ve created something that looks less like a bow tie and more like a small animal died around my neck. I snap a photo of the disaster and send it to Tommy.

Problem.

Is that a bow tie or are you being attacked by fabric?

Very helpful. What do I do?

Clip-on?

Do I look like a five-year-old at a wedding?

Currently you look like someone who lost a fight with a formal necktie, so...yes?

I groan, staring at my reflection again.

This is why I hate formal events.

Ask Elliot to help. She used to tie Jason’s all the time.

The suggestion makes me pause. It’s practical, but also intimate in a way that makes my pulse quicken.

Isn’t that weird? “Hey, would you mind performing this service you used to do for your ex-husband?”

Only weird if you make it weird. It’s just a tie.

But it’s not just a tie. It’s an excuse to be close to her, to have her hands near my collar, my throat. After this morning’s photo exchange, every interaction feels charged with new potential.

I’munwilling to admit how appealing the idea is.

I change out of the tux carefully, hanging everything back up except the treacherous bow tie, which I leave on my dresser like a challenge to be conquered later. Then I head to the kitchen, suddenly aware I haven’t eaten since my pre-workout protein shake.

As I assemble a sandwich, my mind drifts back to Elliot. To the glimpse of black lace against pale skin. To her playful text responses. To the idea of her in a colorful dress, allowing herself to be noticed again.

The gala is four days away. Four days to figure out how to be around her without looking like a lovesick idiot. Four days to decide if I should tell her the truth about why I moved in next door.

Four days to prepare for what might be my only shot at showing her that not all hockey players are like her ex. That she deserves someone who sees her. Really sees her.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Thanks for being cool about the photo thing. Most guys would have handled that very differently.

Elliot. The fact that she’s still thinking about it, still processing, makes my heart rate kick up.

Most guys are idiots. Besides, I think we’re beyond the point of awkward formality after today’s exchange, don’t you?

Fair point. Though I’m still processing the fact that my neighbor has seen me in my underwear before we’ve even had a proper date.

Is she flirting? It feels like flirting. I take a risk with my response.

If it helps, I’ve been trying very hard not to picture you in said underwear while making lunch. Failing spectacularly, but trying.

There’s a pause that stretches just long enough to make me worry I’ve crossed a line.

At least you’re honest about it. And for the record, the struggle goes both ways. Your photo was...distracting.

A bolt of heat shoots through me. Elliot Waltman just admitted she finds me distracting. Specifically, finds me in underwear distracting.

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