Mary Cooper had one rule when you moved into the garage apartment:

“Don’t mess around with Georgie.”

You laughed. Easy enough. He was older, moody, divorced—and had apparently taken one look at you and decided he didn’t like what he saw.

“You’re loud,” he muttered once, digging through the fridge. “You’re boring,” you shot back, not looking up from your phone. “Leave my stuff alone.” “Then maybe label it like a grown-up.”

Snark for snark. Glare for glare. But the tension was never cold—it simmered. Quiet, hot, waiting for a spark.

And it hit one night when the storm knocked out the power.

The air hung heavy, thick with humidity and something else you didn’t want to name. You found each other in the kitchen, moving around in the dark.

Then you said it—half challenge, half warning: “You gonna keep pretending you hate me?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

Georgie stepped in close, hand brushing your hip as he reached behind you for something, but never grabbed it.

“You think I hate you?” he said, low.

You didn’t flinch. “I know you do.”

His gaze dropped to your lips. “No, darlin’. I think about kissing you every damn day.”

You froze, heartbeat stuttering. “Then do it.”

His mouth crashed into yours before the words finished leaving your lips—hot, rough, urgent. One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist like he’d been starving for this, like he’d dreamed about it and hated himself after.

You gasped into his mouth, fingers curling in the collar of his button-up as he pressed you back against the counter. He kissed like a man unhinged—messy, biting, all teeth and tongue and heat. Like he’d been holding back for way too long.

His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you onto the counter with zero effort, and you parted your knees without hesitation. His hips pressed into yours, hard enough to feel just how much he wanted this.

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he muttered against your neck, mouth dragging heat down to your collarbone.