Page 23 of The Mr. Right Checklist

I lift the welcome mat, which is boring brown and does not say welcome, and find a key with a paper tag hanging from it. On one side of the tag he’s written Fletch’s house, as if I have a stockpile of keys to men’s houses. I flip the tag over and read more of his squarish handwriting. No snooping.

“I’ll try not to,” I say as I unlock the door and push it open.

Molly is right there to greet me, tail wagging, excitedly sniffing me and my bag of goodies as I close the door. “Hi, Mol. I missed you, too. I know you want a treat, and you probably need to pee. Just give me one sec.” I dig out one of the treats I baked for her, and she snags it, bounding into the great room to my left, and jumps onto the couch.

I take a moment to get my bearings and see how the extraordinary kisser lives. I had pictured his home to be all walled-off rooms and muted colors, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. An open layout and off-white walls make his home feel airy and bright. The great room is separated from the foyer by only a change in flooring from tile to hardwood, and it feeds into a dining area with a bay window on the side and French doors leading out to a patio. The kitchen is to the right of the dining area, separated from the great room by a bar with high-top stools.

The furnishings, however, are very much like my well-put-together friend. With the exception of a few of Molly’s toys on the floor, everything is neat and tidy, including the built-in bookshelves flanking a fireplace on the far wall. A mahogany coffee table matches the wood on the blue and beige upholstered chairs, which complement the beige-and-brown area rug. Molly’s lying on a blue throw blanket covered with her fur on the couch as she finishes her treat.

I make my way along the foyer and peer down a hall on my right, where I see a bathroom, a closed door, and what looks like a bedroom and an office, but I don’t snoop any further in that direction. Instead, I head over to the bookshelves, skipping the neatly organized books to peruse the family photos, of which there are many. There are several of a couple who can only be Fletch’s parents. The man shares the same sharp features, light blue eyes, and dirty-blond hair as Fletch, and although I haven’t seen that many of Fletch’s smiles, the similarity to the brunette’s is unmistakable. Her eyes also give away her love for her sons in every picture. A pang of longing for my own parents washes through me.

I pick up a picture of Fletch as a lanky boy of twelve or thirteen standing on a boat, his red swim trunks hanging low on his slim hips, his mass of longish hair blowing in the wind. He’s holding a fish that’s longer than his body. Chuck is standing behind him in black swim trunks with his arms up in the air, mouth wide open, like he’s photobombing, and Jimmy is lying on a towel beside Chuck, shading his eyes from the sun, looking at the camera. I scan the other photos of Fletch and his brothers at varying ages, playing basketball and sitting by a lake. One picture catches my attention. Fletch looks around twenty years old or so. He and his brothers are standing on a boat, and Chuck and Jimmy are each holding fish. Their heads are tilted back, and Fletch, with those magnificent abs on display, is pouring beer into their mouths. His scruff is unkempt, his skin is bronze, and he’s wearing a baseball cap and a huge grin. He looks so different, so in the moment. It’s hard to imagine the guarded man I know as a carefree kid, much less this partying twentysomething.

I wonder if that’s who he is only when he’s with his brothers or if that is who he used to be, and something changed him.

Feeling like I’m now full-on snooping, I set the picture down and arrange the goodies I brought in the center of the dining room table, where Molly can’t reach them. As if she smells them, she leaps off the couch and barks.

“Perfect timing. Let’s get out of here before I accidentally snoop again.”

Chapter Eight

FLETCH

I walk out of a meeting with university administration and campus security about what happened last weekend and pull out my phone to take it off silent mode. I have voicemail messages from my mother and Chuck, a text from Beth, and several texts from Destiny. As I head out to my car, I scroll through Destiny’s texts.

The first few are pictures of Molly walking on the leash at the park. I come to one of both of them. Destiny’s brows are lifted, and she’s smirking, pointing to the leash, which is wrapped around her hand twice. Smartass. I feel myself grinning as I flip through more pictures of them. There’s one of Destiny lying in the grass with Molly’s big head resting on her arm, one of Molly licking Destiny’s cheek, and another of the two of them in the gazebo. Destiny’s arm is around my furry monster. That damn dimple taunts me in every picture. The last picture is a close-up of Molly sitting in front of Destiny. Destiny’s sunglasses are perched on top of her head, holding her hair away from her face, giving me a better view of her happy eyes and beautiful smile. Her chin is resting on Molly’s head, and one arm is wrapped around Molly. Molly’s eyes are closed, her expression sheer bliss.

I can’t take my eyes off that picture.

Or my mind off the fact that I’m mildly jealous of my dog right now.

Did my beast notice how Destiny’s hair smells like strawberries, like I did when she hugged me at the café? My jaw clenches as I remember those hugs and how they got to me. I’m no saint. I don’t go without human contact. But even casually dating, I keep my guard up. Destiny makes it impossible to do that. She’s not only open with her feelings and opinions, but she invades my personal space, and she’s extra touchy-feely, and damn it, I didn’t want to like the way she felt in my arms.

I force myself to close the picture and read the first message she sent, which is all about how amazing—her word, not mine—Chuck is and how she wants to figure out a way to thank him.

Great. Now I’m jealous of my dog and my brother.

I really enjoyed helping her yesterday. I laughed with her more than I have in a long time. She’s impulsive and scattered, but she’s got the best of intentions. She’s driven by her heart to fulfill her dreams. Can’t knock that. That checklist of hers is a joke, but Destiny has her own brand of charm, and it’s pretty fucking adorable. My mind drifts back to the moment I’ve been trying to ignore but haven’t been able to stop thinking about. The one when our eyes locked and desire crackled in the air between us. I had all but forgotten what that hum of connection, that bone-deep desire to be closer to someone, felt like. I nearly went in for another kiss. I keep wondering if I imagined the longing I saw in her eyes, but hell if I hadn’t felt it so strongly, it haunted me all night. I dreamed about stripping off those pink overall shorts to see if the rest of her tasted as good as her mouth did and woke up with my stone-hard dick in my hand.

Images from the dream traipse in, and my dick twitches. In an effort to shut that down before it can take hold, I close Destiny’s message and open Beth’s. Beth is a surefire boner killer. I love her like a sister, but like a sibling, she can be a pain in my ass.

Beth:

Is my future husband on drugs, or do you really have a date for the wedding?

Fletch:

Don’t make a big deal out of the date, please.

Beth:

I won’t. I’ll just be over here sending notifications to everyone we know. Do you think this will work? FLETCH FINALLY FOUND SOMEONE WHO WILL PUT UP WITH HIS FRIGID ASS.

Beth:

I don’t bother responding and listen to my mother’s voicemail message as I climb into my car.

Hi, honey, it’s Mom. Jimmy told me you’re bringing a date to the wedding. I can’t wait to hear all about Destiny. Call me when you get a chance. I love you.