The moment I stepped through my front door, the silence hit me like a slap in the face.
I dropped my purse on the hall table and kicked off my heels. They clattered against the hardwood, the sound echoing way too loudly in the empty space. My eyes automatically went to the coat rack, landing on the empty wooden peg where Mia’s denim jacket used to live.
It had been two months since she’d packed up the last of her boxes and moved in with Jack, and I still wasn’t used to the quiet. No bad reality TV blaring from the living room. No burned popcorn smell. Just me, the hum of the refrigerator, and the creeping realization that I was officially living alone for the first time in my life.
A heavy, cold feeling started to unfurl in my chest as my thoughts started to spiral.
Nope. Not doing this.
I needed noise. I needed color.
I beelined for my bedroom, stripping out of my work blouse and pencil skirt with a sigh of relief. I pulled on my paint-stained jeans and a soft, oversized t-shirt.
Routine. I needed the routine.
The sunroom was the one place in the house that didn’t feel empty, mostly because it was filled to the brim with my chaotic ambition. The afternoon light poured through the three walls of windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
With a deep, soothing breath, I grabbed my palette and squeezed paint onto it. Cadmium yellow. Ultramarine blue. I didn’t have a plan; I just needed the motion.
First stroke on the canvas, I could finally take a deep breath. Second stroke, and the silence in the house stopped feeling so oppressive. I was just slipping into the zone, that sweet spot where my brain finally shut up, when movement in the yard next door caught my eye.
Cam was wrestling with what looked like the skeleton of a trampoline. Metal poles and springs littered his lawn like shrapnel from a hardware store explosion. He was crouched over the instructions, which were weighed down with rocks, and even from here, the tension in his shoulders was visible.
His t-shirt was dark with sweat, sticking to his back, and his light brown hair was a mess where he’d clearly run his hands through it repeatedly.
My stomach did a traitorous little flip.
Down, girl.
He was just my neighbor. My grumpy, clearly stressed neighbor, who probably didn’t want me staring at him through my sunroom window like a creep.
Still, he should probably call someone to come help, because he definitely did not have a handle on it.
Not my problem. Paint. This is my time.
I turned back to the canvas, staring at it for far too long.
A loud crash of metal on metal echoed across the yard, followed by swearing so bad it’d make a sailor blush.
I loaded my brush with white, actively fighting the urge to look up again.Find the flow state. Ignore the hot neighbor.
Another clatter.
I looked up.
He was standing with his hands on his hips, glaring at the paper instructions as if he could intimidate them into assembling themselves.
I dragged my gaze back to my canvas, while a stream of F-bombs shot around Cam’s yard.
I couldn’t work with that soundtrack. And honestly? Neither could he. Besides, he’d fixed my tire without being asked. Even though he’d looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, he’d done it.
The next crash made my decision for me.
I dropped my palette and brush on the table and headed for the back door. “Need a hand with that?” I called from the porch railing.
He turned sharply, and I caught the full force of that green-eyed stare. His jaw tightened. Something flickered across his face that wasn’t quite annoyance, but definitely wasn’t enthusiasm either.
“No.” He straightened to his full height. “But thanks.”
