Then he turned, and my stomach dropped. My mouth went dry. And yet my palms ... those suddenly felt sweaty. His brown hair was a little too long as it started to curl at the ends. His jaw was sharp and precise. Even at a distance I could see his eyes were a haunting seafoam green.
Please no.
“Hey, you’ve finally got a new neighbor.” My sister Elodie’s voice floated behind me before she came into view, a coffee cup in one hand, sunglasses perched on top of her wild dark curls like she belonged in a vacation ad.
She was effortlessly pretty in a sun-warmed, farmgirl kind of way—green eyes bright, skin glowing from long afternoons spent prepping the land for the Star Harbor Family Farm project she’d come back to build.
I didn’t answer, because I couldn’t.
I was actively choking.
Elodie blinked at me. “Are you okay?”
I coughed, hard. Coffee sprayed down the front of my T-shirt, and I clutched my chest like the caffeine itself had betrayed me.
Elodie, ever helpful, handed me a paper towel from her tote bag.
“Selene,” she said, low and amused. “Do you always wheeze like that when a hot guy lifts heavy things? Whoisthat?” She tried peering around the bushes and fence that separated the lawn, without luck.
I cleared my throat and shook my head. “No one.”
“No one? Hmm...” She tilted her head, clearly not buying it. “Because ‘no one’ has the arms of a demigod and is currently lifting a box with one hand like it’s a tray of hors d’oeuvres.”
Oh god, yes, I remember those arms.
One time. One wildly out-of-character, toe-curling, tree-bark-in-my-hair mistake.
Elodie grinned, her eyes lighting with the kind of trouble I absolutely didn’t have time for. “It might be hard living next to a walking fitness model with great biceps. Should I be worried about you?”
“Please,” I deadpanned. “My libido is in a coma and plans to remain there.”
But inside, panic stirred. My entire body was trying to decide between melting into the earth and launching into orbit. The last time I saw that man, I was half drunk on blueberry wine at a jazz bar that served Brie on toast points and advertised itself as funky and intimate.
Just over a month ago I had needed a night out. Just one night of feeling wanted, feeling like someone else. I’d known he was younger than me, but I hadn’t cared. He had been leaning against the bar, all crooked grins and confidence, and I had convinced myself a little flirting would be harmless.
He’d offered to walk me to my car. I’d said yes. Then we’d ended up walking together down a path in the woods at twilight. Before I knew it, bark was digging into my spine, his widepalm pressed flat against my ribs, and we were panting in the humidity.
We never exchanged names. That had been the deal.
Until now.
Now he was moving in next door.
“Oh, shit!” Elodie raised a hand and gave him a friendly wave and huge grin. “Is that Austin?” she said, half to herself with a hearty laugh, and looked at me again. “It’s Brody’s brother. What are theodds?” The back of her hand slapped against my rigid shoulder.
He looked across the lawn and saw us. Austin grinned andwaved back.
I took another sip of my tepid coffee and prayed the mug would hide the horror on my face.
By midafternoon,the panic had settled into something closer to despair. The nanny agencies had nothing—too short notice, too few applicants, not enough incentive to lure someone into part-time, early-morning / early-evening care in a town where most college students had already moved on to fall internships.
I’d spent the last hour bribing Winnie with Goldfish crackers and an episode of her favorite ghost-hunting show while I tried to scan a fragile nineteenth-century ledger without crying on it.
Kit, of course, had breezed in and out like some kind of helpful-but-sassy hurricane, offering tomanifest childcare solutionsand then promptly disappearing with a half-eaten muffin in her bag.
At six thirty, I pulled on clean clothes and slipped into a pair of sandals. Wednesday nights were technically Winnie’s time with her dad, Brian. He taught evening classes at theuniversity, so drop-offs were often last minute and tended to be inconsistent. Still, she’d gone with him tonight, which meant I had a rare window of quiet.
The Star Harbor Historical Society, informally known as the Keepers, met every week, and I hadn’t missed a meeting yet—not since I’d moved back to Star Harbor. It was part civic duty, part tradition, and part much-needed distraction.
