Hot Potato is here in just over two weeks! This is the last (for now) Seacroft book and I can’t wait to share Avery and Linc’s sweet and awkward friends-to-lovers story.
You can pre-order Hot Potato on Amazon now, or catch up on Top Shelf and Cold Pressed (but don’t feel like you have to. Hot Potato will definitely read on its own) before Hot Potato’s release day on September 16.
And if you need a little long weekend reading right now, check out the opening scene of Hot Potato below!
Avery had always been good at numbers. Good at understanding how they fit together. In his life, he had several important numbers:
27—the decimals of pi he memorized in eighth grade to impress girls.
14—the age he realized he was way more interested in impressing boys.
9—(although it seemed longer) the seconds of silence between the time he said, “I’m gay,” to his parents and when his dad said, “Get out.”
3—the nights he slept at a shelter for homeless LGBT teens before his aunt and uncle found him and brought him to live at their house.
And now, two more numbers to add to the list with a certain immediate urgency.
5—how many minutes the internet said it would take to microwave a sweet potato all the way through.
4—(give or take a few seconds) the minutes it took Avery to fall so deeply asleep on his couch that he didn’t notice the sweet potato catching fire and filling his kitchen and his open-concept living room/dining room with smoke.
Fortunately, the alarm he’d had installed the week before moving in did its job and went off, screaming like an air-raid siren.
Avery was upright and scrambling for the alarm panel before he was even fully awake. His pulse thundered, and his brain was goopy sludge as he stared at the keypad and tried desperately to remember the temporary code the technician had punched in.
Of all the numbers to forget.
“You’ll want to change this to something you can remember easily, but that no one can guess.”
Yeah, thanks for that. Avery had meant to. Too many numbers to pick from, though. So he’d procrastinated and figured he’d get around to it eventually. Except now the alarm whooped and made his head hurt as he futilely stabbed at keys and tried to think what combination the technician might have used. Nothing was working.
Was it even a four-digit code?
His pocket vibrated, and he fumbled for his phone. The screen showed the name of the alarm company.
“Yes, hello sir, we’re receiving an alarm signal from your property,” the voice on the phone said formally.
“Yes. Yes,” Avery gasped. “It’s fine. Just a false alarm.” He’d find a towel to wave under the smoke detector, open some windows—did his windows even open?—and it would be fine.
“False alarm?” The operator sounded uncertain, but what did he know? To him, Avery couldn’t possibly be more than a flashing dot on a computer monitor.
“It’s fine. Just my dinner. Nothing to worry about.”
“So you don’t require the fire department?”
Oh God, that would be the worst. Avery did not need the spectacle of first responders in front of his building.
On cue, flashing lights filled the small space at the top of the stairs to his basement apartment. Avery bounded up to the door and stared in horror at the big red truck parked at the curb.
“I’ll call you back,” he said into the phone.
But Avery was already pulling open the door and running out over the lawn.