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The room goes completely quiet.

Paul’s friendly expression falters for a split second. He looks startled, like I’ve said something inappropriate, before recovering with a quick, tight smile. “Well…welcome, Carmen.”

No one else says a word. The silence stretches just long enough for my cheeks to start burning.

Was that too much? Should I have just said I want a better job? Not that I have one.

Thankfully, Paul clears his throat and moves on to the next student.

A few minutes later, I sneak another quick glance at my phone—just to check on Fifi. She’s still sleeping peacefully.

“Excuse me,” Paul says from the front of the room. “No phones during class, please.”

I nod quickly, face warm again, and slip the phone back into my bag.

First day and I’ve already made a bad impression.

Perfect. Just perfect.

It’s only a half-day today, thank goodness. I was already feeling slightly overwhelmed just listening to the curriculum outline, never mind trying to remember how to actually learn again after all these years. My brain feels like it’s been in retirement and is now being reluctantly dragged back into service.

On the way home, I stop at the grocery store for a couple of cans of Fifi’s food and a sad-looking ready meal for myself. I’ve accepted that they all taste vaguely of cardboard, but cooking a proper meal for just myself always feels a little depressing.

That’s one of the things I’ve missed most since leaving my marriage—cooking for my family. Making a big pot of something comforting and having people to share it with.

As I turn into my driveway, I notice the For Rent sign next door has disappeared. A black vintage car now sits in the driveway. I slow without meaning to, a little spark of curiosity flickering in my chest. New neighbors. That would be lovely, actually. The last ones barely spoke to me except to accuse me of stealing their doormat—which I most certainly did not.

I switch off the engine, gather my grocery bags, and attempt to climb out of the car. But I don’t have enough hands. So, like any sensible woman, I bite down on my keys, rearrange the bags, and shuffle backwards out of the car.

I turn around and almost walk straight into a solid wall of a man. He’s standing so close I have to step back to look up at him.

Recognition hits before I’ve even fully straightened.

It’s him. The guy from the wine bar last week.

Up close in daylight, he looks even more striking than I remembered. Dark hair with a slight, unruly curl. A beard a little uneven, like he trimmed it in a rush. A small gold hoop glints in his left ear. But it’s the way his white T-shirt stretches across his broad chest and shoulders that makes my brain short-circuit for a second.

Heat creeps up my neck.

I quickly set the grocery bags on the ground and fish the keys out of my mouth.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he reaches down and picks up both bags with one hand, his left arm remaining stiff and flat at his side. Before I can protest, he’s already walking toward my front door. I glance around, half expecting this to be some kind of prank.

“Just moved in next door,” he says over his shoulder, not bothering to look back. “Levi.”

Oh. Right.

I trail after him, still a little stunned.

“I’m Carmen,” I mutter. “I think I saw you at that wine bar last week?”

He glances back, his expression bored and mildly assessing, like my memory is cute but inconvenient.

“Me?” he says. “Maybe.”

“You waited for me outside the restroom,” I say, sharper this time.