“Can I get you anything? Water, tea, soda?” I hear myself asking. Chalk it up to my automatic response system for houseguests. He might murder me with an ice pick in a second, but at least I offered him a beverage.

“I’ll have a Gatorade. I’m sure Sam keeps some stashed in there. Thanks.” Another point in his favor: Samantha totally does keep Gatorade in the fridge—it’s the only non-organic, high-sugar thing in there.

I walk over to the fridge and make the mistake of looking at Elliott on my way over. He’s smiling at me, and I notice he has a single dimple on his right cheek. It’s like the universe knew giving him two dimples would be unfair to the rest of us.

Ahh. I need to focus. “Okay, so how are you going to prove you’re really who you say you are? Do you happen to have a DNA test in your back pocket?”

And what fine pockets they are. His jeans are the perfect cross between hipster slim and boringly straight. He’s obviously well-acquainted with the inside of a gym because I can see the outline of his quads through the dark denim all the way from here.

Elliott’s eyes lock onto mine when I finally make it back up to his face. His eyebrows tick upward. Yup, I’m pretty sure he realizes I was just checking out his denim—and everything underneath it. I open the fridge door and stick my head in while my cheeks turn hot pink.