I knock again, firmer this time. My foot taps impatiently against the wooden planks, matching the tempo of my building irritation, which quickly turns to indignation rising from my chest. I silently rehearse my speech about noise ordinances and common courtesy.
Still nothing.
Heat spreads across my face, shoulders tensing up to my ears.
Okay. That’s it.
Sleeves rolled up, I raise my fist and bang on the door with enough force to wake the ancestors. The metal door knocker clanks against the plate with each bang, until finally the guitar stops mid-screech.
I can hear the birds chirping again, and somewhere down the street, a lawnmower hums—the sound practically melodious compared to the auditory assault I’ve just endured.
That was quite a workout. I blow a rogue strand of hair out of my eyes and cross my arms like a woman prepared for battle.
I wait. And wait. Seconds tick by, stretching like taffy.
Then the lock clicks, and the door cracks open a tad, enough for me to see a sliver of the man inside. He’s wearing a cap and dark aviator sunglasses.
Shy much?
It’s not even sunny outside, and this guy’s wearing shades indoors like he’s auditioning for Men in Black. The singular visible slice of his face reveals stubble along a sharp jawline.
Another one in sunglasses. Did I miss a memo? Is itInternational Sunglasses Indoors Day?
“Hi,” I begin, my voice the brand of politeness I reserve for disciplining kids. “I’m Maisie. I live next door.” I gesture toward my house with a nod of my head, just in case the man behind the door doesn’t understand proximity.
The door opens another inch, but the gap still isn’t wide enough for me to see his full face. His head dips, and he lowers his sunglasses until his eyes meet mine—icy blue, sharp, and fixed on me like he’s trying to piece together a very complicated jigsaw puzzle.
Do I look that terrifying? I know I didn’t brush my hair before storming out the door, but I’m not medusa.
“The music,” I prompt, when it becomes clear he’s not going to speak first. “It’s a bit intense for shared property lines.”
With a defensive stance, his gaze lingers on me, which gives me the creeps.
I uncross my arms, trying to soften my appearance. My teacher instincts kick in—sometimes you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, even if the fly deserves a good swatting.
“Sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a pile of math quizzes waiting to be graded and your music is . . . well, it’s making it a little hard to concentrate. If you could keep it down to a minimum, I’d really appreciate it. Do you mind?”
He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stare.
This is going well.
My throat tightens with awkwardness. Maybe he doesn’t speak English? Although I’m pretty sure I put up a universal facialexpression for “your music is giving the neighborhood collective tinnitus.”
Deciding that the conversation is over, I give a tight smile and turn back toward my house, hoping my point has stuck. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt before I call in noise complaints or rally the neighborhood with pitchforks and petition forms.
“Maisie Lang?”
His voice is soft but deep, with the right amount of raspiness to be considered sexy.
I stand there frozen for a moment before turning slowly to face him. “Yeah?” My stomach lurches with that uneasy feeling of being known by someone you don’t recognize. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?” For the life of me I can’t place who he is.
The door swings open all the way, and he glances left, then right, as if making sure no one’s around, before he steps onto the porch. The Mudcats cap and aviators conceal his face.
Then a lightbulb flashes. “You were at Granny Jo’s this morning,” I say. That much I’m sure of. But the rest? I’ve lived here my whole life—I know the town, the people, the rhythm of things. This guy doesn’t belong to any of that.
“Forgive me,” I add, my curiosity spiking. “I’m drawing a blank. Have we met before?”
He takes off his cap with a casual flick of his wrist, and his black hair falls in tousled waves over his forehead. Then he slides his sunglasses off and—
