Page 1 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Chapter One
Olivia
When It Doesn’t Fit . . . Pivot?
Moving during the summer should be illegal—or at least come with one of those yellow warning tags: Proceed with caution. Excessive sweating and immediate regret await.
I brace my knee against the doorframe, gripping the couch like it personally insulted my entire family. “Come on, you stubborn—” I grunt, throwing my whole body into the fight. The couch does not budge. Not even an inch.
Defeated, I drop my forehead onto the fabric, muttering into the cushions, “This is how it ends. Crushed under mid-century modern, and my hopes for a fresh start.”
Behind me, Aspen—my older sister, the self-appointed moving consultant, and reigning champion of ‘moral support over manual labor’—lets out an exaggerated sigh. “It’s not going to fit like that. Turn it.”
“I am turning it.”
“No, you’re aggressively shoving it like you’re trying to establish dominance. That’s not the same thing.” She tsks a couple of times. “This isn’t a puppy that has to be on the examining table against their will.”
Like I would do that with one of my clients. What does she think I do when I’m at my practice? Wrestle animals to submission?
I step back, dragging the couch onto the porch and glaring at the furniture wedged halfway into my new house, the architectural equivalent of a middle finger. “Maybe if I had some actual help . . .”
“Are you implying I’m not helping?” Aspen scoffs, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder like she’s in a shampoo commercial. “Excuse me, but I am helping. With moral support, I already carried the boxes into the kitchen. You think they grew legs and made themselves at home?”
The sound I make is somewhere between a whimper and a threat. What’s the point of having an older sister if she refuses to help with anything? Instead of Aspen, I could’ve used an actual mover or a forklift.
Just as I prepare to launch one final, all-or-nothing shove, something large, fast, and very much alive barrels into my legs, causing my balance to vanish. The doorframe meets my back with a thunk.
I yelp, catching myself just in time to see a rust-colored blur streak into my empty living room—long legs, sleek body, and tongue lolling out as if she just won the lottery.
A dog.
A big, beautiful dog.
A big, beautiful dog is now happily settling into my kitchen, sniffing my moving boxes as if she’s conducting a very thorough, albeit unauthorized, inspection.
“Seriously, Sarah? What part of heel did you not get, sweetheart?”
The voice is deep. Warm. Unfairly attractive.
I turn, and—oh.
Oh.
There’s a man in my doorway. A very shirtless, very sweaty, very unfairly attractive man.
He’s tall and built like someone who makes a living using his body. He’s probably running shirtless just to remind the world that some people have abs. I, of course, immediately hate him on principle. People who go for shirtless jogs in broad daylight must have ulterior motives—likely nefarious ones.
He leans against my doorframe as if this is the most normal way to interact with strangers, an easy grin on his face, cocky in a manner that shouldn’t be this charming but definitely is.
“Hey, new neighbor,” he says as if we’re old friends catching up rather than strangers in a home invasion meet-cute situation.
I blink. My brain stalls.
He pulls his shirt from where it was tucked into his shorts—why was it there? Who does that?—and instead of putting it on like a civilized human, he uses it to wipe the sweat offhis forehead. The movement emphasizes his broad shoulders, tanned skin, and the sheen of sweat gliding down his collarbone like a scene straight out of some very sexy action movie starring Chris Evans if he were a very tall redhead.
“Hey, have you seen my pup?”
I clear my throat, willing my brain to reboot. “You mean the big red blur that just broke into my house?”
