“Go tell Harrison that I’m leaving in five minutes.”

Amanda stands and slips on her jacket.

I sigh. “Please.”

“Sorry. I’m off the clock. You’ll have to go up there and tell him yourself. Say hi to Elle for me.”

“L?”

“Short for Ellen.”

“You’re too lazy to add the N?”

“Stop being so …” She purses her lips to the side. “You.”

“Me?”

“Elle is short for Ellen. Just like Flint is short for Flinton.”

I return my attention to my computer. She knows damn well my name is not Flinton. I’m tired of acknowledging her lunacy. “You’re fired.”

“Yay me! I was worried you were about to let me squeak by today without firing me. See you Monday.”

“Monday.” I give her a parting glance and a slight grin in spite of how much she tortures me with her antics.

I’ve managed to avoid the second floor of the building since the day I failed at evicting Ms. Rodgers. As the elevator makes its short ascent, my clothes feel too warm, my tie too tight, and my skin too sweaty. I think my neck itches too. It’s an Ellen allergy. Surely Harrison will understand why I have to get rid of her if I can show proof of an actual allergy to her. On second thought, he won’t. His level of empathy has improved a little, but he’s far from putting himself in anyone else’s shoes.

“Do you still dance?” she asks Harrison as I stay behind the door, just out of sight.

“No.”

“Do you do any other activities?”

“Football.”

“Really?”

“No. That’s what my dad told me to say. Ha! He’ll be happy when I tell him I remembered to say it on cue.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. That’s not how it went down. This kid of mine thinks he can condense a fifteen minute discussion into eight words that are not on cue at all.

Ellen laughs. It’s grating. Her happiness is grating. And itchy. I tug at my tie, tip up my chin, and scratch my neck.

“Your dad has a lot of footballs in his office. I can see why he might want you to play it.”

“He played.”

“Oh yeah? In college?”

“I think so.”

Unbelievable. He remembers random shit he reads once, but he can’t remember the details of my football years—something I’ve told him hundreds of times.

“Where?” Of course that’s her follow-up question.

Here we go …

“I don’t remember.”

Bingo.

“He’s always watching it on TV with his friend.”

“Your dad has a friend?”

I clear my throat and walk around the corner. “Don’t sound so surprised, Ms. Rodgers. I might have more than one friend.”

“No.” Harrison shakes his head. “Just the one.”

I’m ready to shake him. Ellen bites back her grin but her lips get stuck on her teeth, so she wets them. And I stare at her wetting her lips because she’s distracting—and itchy.

“Get your things and wait in the car for me.” I hand him the key fob.

Lively blue eyes follow him. They remind me of Heidi’s, only lighter, almost translucent. “Bye, Harry.”

“Bye, Elle.”

“He lets you call him Harry?”

She hums and smiles. I tug at my tie. It’s strangling me.

“Apparently.” Her shoulders lift into a slight shrug.

“And Elle?”

She steps closer. Why the hell is she stepping closer?

“My friends call me Elle. I could be your second friend and you could call me Elle too. But …” She whistles the tune from Jeopardy, flips her red mane behind her shoulders, and grabs my tie, giving it a yank in one direction and then the other until it’s where it was before I started fidgeting with it on my way up here. “You’re going to have to stop all this eviction nonsense. Friends don’t kick friends out of the building.”

I sniff. “You smell like pineapple.”

She smirks. “Piña colada lip balm.”

I hate piña colada.

“Are you going to let go of my tie?” My gaze shifts from her piña colada lips to her hands grasping my tie like it’s tethering her.

“Do you want me to let go of you?” She rubs her smelly lips together.

My dick hardens, such betrayal. Stupid thing didn’t get the memo that we don’t get aroused over tropical drinks.

“I’m kidding.” Releasing my tie, she takes a step back. “I’m a feather ruffler. And I’ve come to enjoy ruffling yours.”

“And why is that?” I tug at the cuffs to my shirt and adjust the buttons of my jacket. There’s no reason for me to ask follow-up questions to her ridiculous statements, but I can’t stop staring at her. She’s … I don’t know … irritatingly beautiful.

“It’s the suit. My father was a tailor. His father was a tailor. And his father …” She grins. “You get where I’m going with this. A long line of tailors in my family. My mother used to smile and grab the lapels to my father’s suit jacket and say, ‘Jonathan Samuel Anderson, you sure do look the part.’

“Then she’d pull him in for a kiss. I’d wrinkle my nose in disgust, but I never turned away. Then he’d say, ‘What part is that, my dear?’

“She replied, ‘My man, of course.’”

“I remind you of your father?”

“Just the perfectly-tailored suit.” She laughs while putting her guitar in its case. “My father is an unassuming man. Kind. Generous to a fault. He never looked at anyone the way you look at me.”

I slip my hands in my pockets and sigh. Why am I still standing here? “How do I look at you?”

Bent over the case on the floor, she cocks her head toward me, squinting one eye. “Like I’m the bane of your existence.”

Fair assessment.

“I’ve given you a grace period because I’m not ready to deal with Harrison’s reaction to you leaving. But you will have to leave this building. Not because you’re the bane of my existence. This is just business. Nothing personal.”

She straightens her back, blowing out a slow breath before that bright, she-fucking-looks-like-a-teenager smile graces her face. “I find that people who say something is business, not personal, usually lack personality. We are people, not machines. Everything we do is personal to someone.”

She needs thicker skin. I give her a tight smile. “Good evening, Ms. Rodgers.” I turn toward the door.

“Good evening, Flint.”

“You can call me Mr. Hopkins.” I push the button to the elevator.

“Mmm, my landlord likes to role play. Me too.”

I stiffen—everywhere—turning my gaze back over my shoulder. Ellen peeks her head around the corner and winks.

I resist the urge to tug at my tie and scratch my neck. She’s flirting with me. Messing with me. Fucking with my head.

*

Harrison pops in his earbuds the moment I get in the car and ignores me the whole way home. We walk in the back door, and I flip one of the earbuds out of his ear.

“What?” He frowns, pausing whatever is playing from his phone.

I set my briefcase on the counter and grab an iced coffee from the fridge. “Why do you let her call you Harry?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve called you Harry over the years and you’ve had a conniption fit. Teachers and kids in school call you Harry and you lose it over a name that is in fact your nickname. But some stranger loans you a guitar and plays a few tunes with you and you submit to a name you’ve disliked for years? Help me understand this.”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re too smart to let ‘I don’t know’ be your default for everything you’re asked.”

He shrugs, shaking his head to brush the hair from his eyes. “When she says it, it sounds cool. Not like when everyone else says it.”

“Harry.”

“Nice try. You don’t say it right.”

I chuckle. “It’s not how she says it. She’s an attractive woman and that’s why you’re okay with her calling you Harry.”

“You’re such an idiot.” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t say attractive.”

I twist the cap back onto the glass bottle of coffee. “And what do young, totally cool kids like yourself say?”

Another eye roll. My son is a bobble-head with googly eyes.

“Hot. She’s hot, Dad. Not that you would notice.” He slips his earbuds back into his ears.

I yank them back out, and he grumbles.

“Why wouldn’t I notice a hot woman?”

“Because you don’t have sex with them.”

Just when I think he can’t say anything that can surprise me … he surprises me. “You think the only way to acknowledge a ‘hot’ woman is to have sex with her? I fear you haven’t listened to the conversations we’ve had about sex.”

“Simon’s dad has women over for sex. It’s the only time he lets Simon watch TV for more than two hours at a time.”

“More than two hours, huh?” Simon’s dad is a lucky fucker.