Seducing Mr. Mahoney

The coffee maker sputtered like it might give up on life at any second, but I stood there in my dad’s kitchen waiting patiently anyway, arms folded, hair tied up in a messy knot, one foot bare and the other in a sock. That was the aesthetic these days: half-put-together, half-someone’s-regret.

Outside, the heat was already making the windows sweat. Summer in central Tennessee didn’t pull any punches, especially not on an old farmhouse like this one. I hated the way the walls creaked with age and the kitchen floor sloped ever so slightly to the left, but part of me also loved it — that romantic part that liked old things, dusty vinyls, and weathered wood.

I hadn’t even brushed my hair yet, but I needed caffeine before I could pretend to be helpful. I was supposed to be helping Dad fix up the place this summer — a noble lie that kept me from facing down another semester of pretending I gave a damn about business management. I didn’t. Not even a little. I wanted to write songs. Maybe sing them. But you don’t exactly drop that bomb on your dad over scrambled eggs.

Just as the machine gave its final gurgle and filled the kitchen with the comforting scent of bitter salvation, a sharp knock echoed through the house.

“Got it,” Dad called from somewhere down the hall, footsteps heavy as he approached the front door.

I took my first sip of coffee — hot, strong, exactly what I needed — when I heard a voice.

A voice I hadn’t heard since I was ten.

“Mark Whitmore. Still got all your hair, I see.”

My body froze, cup still halfway to my lips. No freaking way.

“Everett?” I heard the smile in Dad’s voice. “You made good time.”

Curiosity — or maybe some weird muscle memory — pulled me away from the coffee and toward the front entry. My bare foot padded softly across the old wood floor, and as I rounded the corner into the foyer, I saw them: my dad with a huge grin, and standing in front of him, a man I barely recognized and yet instantly knew.

Everett Mahoney.

Time hadn’t just been kind to him — it had practically worshipped him.

He was tall. Much taller than I remembered. And broad — his shoulders filled the doorway like he could carry the whole damn house on his back. His hair was longer now, chin-length waves of dark blonde that looked sun-streaked and effortless. He had neatly trimmed facial hair that added this rugged charm to his chiseled features, and when his light brown eyes flicked past my dad and landed on me — wide, sharp, and suddenly very focused — I felt my stomach flip.

“Sam?” he said, blinking like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

My mouth opened, but words didn’t come right away. I was too busy thinking, Holy shit. Everett is hot.

I offered him a shy smile instead, one corner of my mouth lifting as I tried to act casual despite the fact that my insides were suddenly jelly. “Hey,” I said softly, still rooted in place.

He stepped forward slightly, his gaze dropping from my face to the coffee mug in my hand and then back up again. “Last time I saw you, you were missing your two front teeth and covered in peanut butter.”

“Well,” I said, finally finding my voice, “I still like peanut butter. Just slightly more dignified about it now.”

He laughed — a warm, rich sound that rolled through the room and made something flutter in my chest.

Dad clapped Everett on the shoulder. “Told you she grew up fast. She’s helping me around the place this summer. She’s in college now.”

I felt the weight of that last sentence. It came out like a badge of pride. Or maybe a reminder. College kid. Grown-up but not too grown-up. Keep it clean, Everett.

Everett gave me a look — brief, assessing, appreciative — but he tucked it away with an easy smile. “Well, you look great, Sam. All grown up.”

I felt a blush rise to my cheeks, which I desperately hoped looked like a response to the summer heat and not my traitorous hormones.

“I’ll give you a tour of what we’re dealing with,” Dad said, already turning to head toward the back of the house. “Kitchen’s still a mess. Got some rot in the beams out in the barn, too.”

Everett lingered a second longer, then followed Dad, but not before his eyes caught mine again — a glance that felt... different. Charged.

I stood there in the doorway for another moment, heart thumping too fast for something that was definitely not a big deal. Definitely not. I mean, yes, he was handsome. Yes, he smelled like sawdust and clean laundry and man. Yes, his voice was deep and a little raspy in a way that gave me full-body chills. But this was Everett.

My dad’s best friend.

This summer just got a hell of a lot more complicated.

---

I tried to shake it off as I went back to the kitchen, but my hands shook slightly as I poured myself another cup of coffee. Everett. Was here. For the whole summer. Helping fix up the farm. That meant long days outside, maybe shirtless in the heat. Casual dinners around the patio table. Mornings like this.

I had not emotionally prepared for this.

When I heard their voices again — Everett’s low and smooth, Dad’s more upbeat and familiar — I leaned on the edge of the counter and took a long breath.

It was fine. Totally fine. I was an adult. Twenty-one. I could handle being around an attractive man. Even if that man used to babysit me once when I was seven and made me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut into stars.

“Sam,” Dad called a few minutes later, “Come help us out back when you’re done. We’re checking the barn support beams.”

“Be right there!” I called back.

I rinsed out my mug and tied my hair into a tighter knot. My tank top clung slightly to my back, and I thought about changing into something less... clingy. But then again, I thought, maybe not.

I stepped outside and found them by the barn, Dad talking about lumber and insulation while Everett crouched low to inspect a base beam. The position pulled his shirt tight across his back, and I caught myself staring.

He looked up at that moment and our eyes met again.

He smiled — just a little — like he’d caught me.

And maybe he had.