“Thanks, Gramps. Whoever you are.” My voice echoes through the hollow space as I wander. Technically, my father’s father bought the house for me. He was never a part of my life, but he knew who I was—the product of a fling between his twenty-eight-year-old, truck-driver son with a criminal record and my then-fifteen-year-old mother—and was kind enough to name me in his will.

The house needs some TLC, more evident now that the furniture is gone. Nothing fresh paint, new lights, and a belt sander to the worn golden oak floors can’t fix. I knew that when I put an offer in, and ever since I signed the sale papers, my butt’s been glued to the shabby couch of my Newark apartment while I’ve binge-watched home-reno shows for inspiration. Of course, most of it I can’t afford. Slowly but surely, though, I’ll turn this place into the charming seaside retreat—minus the sea—that I’ve always envisioned.

Checking the time, I fire off a quick “Where are you?” text to my best friend, Justine, and then head to the porch to wait for the U-Haul. They were supposed to be here an hour ago. I’m annoyed, but I can’t be too annoyed, seeing as Joe and Bill—Justine’s brother and boyfriend—are driving two hours each way to move me in exchange for beer and burgers and a night on air mattresses.

Well, I’m sure Justine will repay Bill in some sordid way that I’d rather not think about.

Leaning against the post, I smile at the hum of a lawn mower churning through grass in the neighborhood. I’ll have to pay a neighborhood boy to cut my front yard until I can afford my own mower. The gardens, I’ll tend on my own. Iris and her husband doted on this property for sixty years, and I promised her I’d keep them thriving. Maybe that’s a tall order, seeing as I have yet to keep even a cactus alive. First stop tomorrow is to replace my long-lost library card so I can borrow some gardening books.

The low picket fence—more decorative than purposeful—that lines the front yard has seen better days, the layers of white paint peeling away, many of the boards needing new nails to secure them upright. The wooden rocking chairs will need attention too. They rest where they always have. Iris left them, saying they belong on this porch. I can’t bring myself to sit in one just yet, so I settle on the slanted porch steps instead.

Two children coast along the quiet, oak-lined street on their bicycles, throwing a curious glance my way. I’m sure they saw the For Sale sign out on the curb weeks ago. In a town this small, everyone is interested to know more about the woman moving into the neighborhood.

They don’t have to worry about me, though. I’m a native of Polson Falls, Pennsylvania, merely displaced for twelve years when I dashed away to college in New York, allured by the idea of starting over in a big city where people hadn’t heard the names Scarlet or Dottie Reed. It was fun for a time, but I’ve since learned big cities aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, and the luxury of anonymity has its own set of challenges. Like, how hard it is to catch a break in a school board where you have no connections. Seven years of substitute teaching while waitressing in the evenings to make ends meet dulled the luster for that life.

It seemed like providence then, when I made the obligatory trip home to visit Mom for her birthday and ran into my elementary school principal at the 7-Eleven. Wendy Redwood always loved me as a student. We got to talking about my teaching career. Thirty minutes of chatter and what felt like an impromptu interview later, she asked me if I’d ever consider working for her. Lo and behold, she’s still the principal at Polson Falls Elementary and was looking for a sixth grade teacher for the fall. Sure, there were hiring considerations and board rules and all that, but she could navigate around them. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.

I smiled and thanked her and told her I’d think about it. At the time, I couldn’t imagine entertaining the thought, but then I drove down Hickory Street for shits and giggles, only to see the open-house sign in front of my childhood dream home.

Within fifteen minutes of stepping inside, I was dialing Wendy Redwood for the job and considering what I should offer on the property. It all seemed like kismet. I mean, the house was at a price almost too good to be true, and the school was two blocks away!

I sigh as I sip the last of my cold, burnt gas station coffee. This is a fresh start, even in an old world full of familiar faces. Besides, it’s been more than a decade since I last roamed the halls of any school here. Those painful years and cruel people are far behind me.

The peaceful midday calm is disrupted by the chug of a garage door crawling open, followed by the deep rumble of a car engine starting. A long, red vintage muscle car backs out of the garage next door and eases into the open space beside a blue Ford pickup. I can’t tell what kind of car it is, but it’s old and in pristine shape, the bright coat of paint glistening in the August sun.

I never asked Iris about the neighbors. The two times I’ve been here—once during the open house and once after I’d signed the paperwork for the offer—nobody was home on either side. Both properties look well maintained, though. The bungalow with the muscle car has new windows and a freshly built porch off the front. There isn’t much in the way of gardens—some shrubs and trees—but the lawn is manicured.

I watch curiously as the driver’s side door pops open and a tall man with wavy, chestnut-brown hair steps out, his back to me as he fusses with his windshield wiper. Coffee pools in my mouth as I stall on my swallow, too busy appreciating the way his black T-shirt clings to his body, showing off broad, sculpted shoulders, muscular arms, and a tapered waist. He’s wearing his dark-wash jeans perfectly—not so baggy that they hang unflatteringly off his ass, but not so tight that cowboy boots and a wide-brimmed hat come to mind.

Damn.

I hold my breath in anticipation, hoping my neighbor will show me a beautiful face to match that fitness-model body. What a stroke of luck that would be, to live next to a gorgeous man. A single, gorgeous man, I pray.

Finally, my silent pleading is answered as he turns and his gaze drifts my way.

I struggle not to spew coffee from my mouth as my keen interest turns to horror.

Oh my God.

Someone, please tell me this is a mistake.

Please tell me I’m not living next door to Shane Fucking Beckett.

* * *