Page 17 of Third Time Lucky

Was there shrimp hidden in that tortellini? My tongue feels too big for my mouth.

Does your dick swell when you eat shrimp?

It never has before. I tug my sweatshirt down to cover the evidence.

“Should I go?” He drops his hand and shifts uncomfortably. “I thought, since we were already talking—”

“No. I mean yes.” I try to assure him, despite my fumbling tongue. “You’re great where you are. I’m the one who should be apologizing for not minding my own business. I heard the song and didn’t realize what I’d walked into.”

The tension in his frame eases, but his smile holds a hint of self-deprecation. “You didn’t know the musical would turn into a drama?”

That startles a laugh out of me. “Basically.”

“I’d like to say she isn’t usually like that.” He makes a face. “She means well.”

I don’t think I have anything repeatable to say in response, so I point to the small, ragged camp chair instead. “Have a seat.”

“There’s only one.”

“That’s right. And it might collapse under your weight, but it’s all I have until tomorrow and you’re my first guest.” I sit on the balcony, cross my legs at the ankle and lean back against the privacy wall. “I’m Joey, by the way. I’m thinking we’re beyond the formal Redmond and Ransom at this point.” I smirk. “If your first name starts with a J, we should start a detective agency. Imagine the alliterative business cards.”

“Elliot. I’m Elliot J. Ransom.” He stares hard at me, as if waiting for a reaction.

“Middle initials don’t count. Oh well. I knew it was a long shot,” I say with a shrug. “It’s nice to officially meet you, Elliot. Please, have a seat in that shitty chair I didn’t know I had.”

He ignores it and sits across from me instead, pressing his back against the opposite wall before popping open the bottle with his fingertips. “Cheers.”

Elliot Ransom would be the perfect detective name.

Let it go.

I eye his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Fuck. It’s like watching live porn. He even moans a little at the taste, and I let my bottle shield my actions as the heel of my hand subtly presses against my dick to relieve the pressure.

He’s probably a model or a commercial actor. His mother mentioned a manager, and he does have the looks for it. I can picture him in flannel next to a clear mountain stream. Or taking a break from rock climbing to quench his sweaty, shirtless thirst. With his eyes closed and his head tipped back, condensation dripping onto his fingers, I’m ready to buy every case on the market.

And if I don’t change the channel, I won’t be able to get up without embarrassing myself.

“Good stuff.” He reads the bottle with a grin. “I can’t remember the last time I had one of these, but the taste is giving me flashbacks of little league pizza parties.” He looks up at me through his thick eyelashes. “It that really your favorite song? Or is it burned into your brain due to all that nanny wrestling?”

I try not to smile. “Wrangling not wrestling. And thanks for giving me an out, but I’d like it even if it wasn’t a crowd pleaser. That song single-handedly inspired me to work on my pecs. For solo shower reenactments only.”

“Well sure.” Elliot drawls, his attention dropping to my chest. I have to stop myself from flexing. Why did I say that? “What other reason is there?”

He’s teasing me and I like it.

I bend one knee casually in an attempt to ease the ache of my unrelenting hard-on. “There was always music in my house growing up, so I have a lot of favorites. Right now, I’m going through a Lizzo phase.”

He rubs the back of his neck and frowns apologetically. “Yeah… I don’t know who that is. I’m not all that into the newer stuff. Is he any good?”

“She and yes.” I gesture toward his balcony. “You have a guitar and a decent voice. That’s a third of a garage band in the making. How can you not be into music?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t into it. I prefer the classics, that’s all. And I only started playing guitar in middle school to work on my finger dexterity. I never wanted to be in a band or anything.”

My mind passes the gutter and goes straight to hell with all the filthy images those words are conjuring. Finger dexterity.

Ungh. Gah. Mmmm.

“Everybody wants to be in a band in middle school,” I rasp, my own fingers twitching without something to juggle. “Classics? How old are we talking?”

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