Dream Maker (Dream Team 1)

I could take out my own trash.

But it’d be nice to have someone around.

Okay, so maybe it would be nice to have someone around to listen to me bitch about my delinquent brother or my user mother and the many times they inveigled (or out-and-out connived) me into getting involved in their messy lives.

But it also would be fun to cook with someone again.

Or have someone to go see movies with, then dissect them after.

Or go out and enjoy some really good food together, good food that came with good conversation.

Or take a vacation and not think of anything but whatever excursion we’d planned that day.

So, all right.

Maybe I should give this a real shot.

Lottie was good people, a good friend, a good woman.

She wouldn’t steer me wrong.

I went to the door, looked out the peephole and froze stiff.

Mo was six five, bald, with unique but handsome features (when you got past the terrifying) and was the aforementioned humongous.

The man outside was not any of that.

He was…

He was…

I watched as he lifted his hand again to knock, I unfroze, unlocked and threw open the door, blurting, “I forgot to put on jewelry.”

His chin jerked into his throat, his torso swayed back, and his electric-blue eyes did a slow sweep of me, from hair to Rothy’s. Those eyes grew alert, then they grew appreciative, and after that, his mouth curled ever so slowly into a sexy smile.

Ohmigod.

Oh man.

Oh hell.

Damn.

He was…

He was…

All that dark hair, longish, flipping and curling and falling into his eyes.

Tall, maybe not as tall as Mo, but not too far off.

Way taller than me, and I was five nine.

Fit.

Oh God.

So fit.

Not humongous, but lean, broad of shoulder and chest, trim of waist, and bulky of thighs.

Dark gray trousers, light-blue button-up, and he’d done a French tuck.

The Queer Eye boys would give him an A++++.

“Evan?” he asked.

“Danny?” I mumbled.

“Mag,” he stated.

“Uh…” I kept mumbling. “Lottie said—”

“Lottie’s bustin’ my chops,” he told me then softened his next with a grin. “No one calls me Danny but Mo’s sisters and that isn’t at my request.”

“Oh,” I whispered.

“You forgot your jewelry?” he prompted.

My hands flew to my earlobes as I said, “Right. Um, come in. I won’t be a second.”

I stepped back, opening the door wide for him to enter.

He walked in and looked around.

I closed the door.

“Let me guess,” he said as he stopped looking around and turned to me. “You drive a Prius.”

“Well, yeah,” I replied.

He busted out laughing.

My nipples tingled.

Ohmigod.

What was happening?

He was so not my thing.

I was a freak.

I was a geek.

And as such, I was into freaks and geeks.

Stick with what you know.

But the sound of his laughter…

The look of it on his face…

Okay.

I changed my mind.

I was not giving this a shot.

No.

Absolutely not.

My brother was in jail (again).

My mother was unemployed (again).

My stepfather (this one number two) was undoubtedly stepping out on her (again) so she’d dump him (again) only to take him back (again).

My father was a professional pothead disguised as a guitar teacher, and underlying all of this, for decades, he’d been a grower and dealer. But now, since marijuana was legal, he worked part-time at a dispensary, and he’d started that because he thought he’d get an employee discount but stayed because he enjoyed communing with his brethren.

Last, my little sister spent all her time attempting to garner followers on social media as well as get on reality programs, therefore how she paid her bills, I had no idea, but if my mind went there, it grew troubled.

Oh, and I was going to get some text from someone, and my brother needed me to do right by him, which undoubtedly would not be right by me.

I did not have the time, or the inclination (that last was a bit of a lie) to be charmed by, become besotted with and put the effort into taming a brokenhearted manwhore who was so pretty, my heart wept just watching him laugh.

But in the end, that heart would just be broken.

Because he’d break it.

“What’s funny?” I asked.

“You might have wanted to leave some of the stock of Urban Outfitters for the other nostalgics,” he answered on a grin.

Did he…

Actually…

Say that?

“Some of it’s from Anthropologie,” I sniffed.

He busted out laughing again.

“And some of it is vintage,” I snapped over his hilarity.

Now, he looked like he was fighting bending double with his amusement.

“What do you drive?” I queried.

“F-250,” he answered, still chucking.

“Sorry?”

“Ford F-250. A truck. A big one. And no, it’s not diesel and it absolutely does not plug into anything.”

I felt my lips thin.

He grinned again.

“I see we’re gonna discuss global warming over dinner,” he noted.

“There’s nothing to discuss. The globe is warming. Thus, we all should take some responsibility for turning that around. End of topic,” I retorted.

He was still grinning when he said, “Chill, Evan. I’m teasing you. Your pad is tight. I like it. And cross my heart,” and he did just this with a very long, well-shaped forefinger, “I put all my leftovers in those reusable ziplocks Mac bought all the guys, and as often as I can, I refuse a straw.”