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“Name?” Dad prompts.
“Hans,” my neighbor responds, holding his hand out.
Dad shakes it.
“Alright, alright. You can grill the boy while we eat.” Mom gestures to the table. “Everyone, sit.”
I snicker at my mom referring to Hans, the larger-than-life man, as a boy.
The man in question surreptitiously slides his thumb down the back of my arm, and I know it’s his way of warning me that he heard my laugh.
Knowing which chairs my parents always sit in, I move to one of the other two and direct Hans to the last chair.
Mom jumps right into dishing food onto everyone’s plate, starting with Hans.
When she’s done, everyone has a square of cheesy sausage egg bake, two slices of crispy bacon, and wedges of salted heirloom tomatoes.
“Dig in,” Dad commands, already shoving a forkful into his mouth.
Hans stays silent as he takes one bite, then a second and third.
I don’t know if he’s feeling uncomfortable about the situation, but it’s not stopping his appetite.
Hans pauses and looks up from his plate, tomato speared on the end of his fork halted halfway to his mouth. “This is delicious,” he tells my mom before looking at me. “Take it this is where you get your love of cooking from?”
Warmth floods my chest as I nod. “Mom had me helping her before I could even reach the counter. I had to stand on a box.”
“It was a wooden crate.” Mom corrects me before she smiles at Hans. “So, our Cassie has cooked for you? Did you know she has her own food blog?”
I try widening my eyes while she’s talking to get her to stop, but she doesn’t take the hint.
“It’s just for fun,” I tell her and Hans, referring to my blog that practically no one follows.
“You do such a good job at it,” Mom insists.
I’m trying not to grimace when I look over at Hans, hoping he’s not holding back a laugh at the idea of me with a blog. But when I meet his gaze, he’s looking at me seriously.
“I’d like you to show me.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
Why is that so sweet and so dirty sounding?
“Where did you two meet?” Dad interrupts my dirty thoughts.
“Um, well, Hans is actually my neighbor.” I don’t know why that fact makes my cheeks flame red, but it does.
“Oh, really?” Mom picks up her mug, and I can see her trying to remember what the houses near me look like. “You buy the one at the end of the street?” she asks Hans, referring to the unoccupied house.
“I’m in the house directly across from Cassandra’s.” Hans uses my full name, as he always does, and I don’t miss when Mom widens her eyes.
But Dad just nods. “Makes sense.”
Wait, what?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Dad lifts his brows. “Well, you work from home and don’t ever go out to actually meet people, so someone falling into your lap was really the only way this was ever going to happen.”
