Matched with the Playboy Next Door (Matched for Love)

Chapter 1ETHAN

CHAPTER 1

ETHAN

B ardstown, Kentucky, isn’t exactly what I’d call home, but it will have to do. The estate I’m moving into stands on the edge of town, a mix of charm and decay. The house is big—too big for one person—but the overgrown lawn and faded shutters remind me why I bought it. It feels like a project, and I need one of those—a place I can rebuild, a place I can make my own.

I lean against the moving truck, squinting at the long driveway. It’s lined with oak trees that cast shadows over the gravel, and for a moment, I think I might actually like it here.

Then I hear the horn.

A loud, impatient blare cuts through the quiet morning air, and I glance over my shoulder. A beat-up red truck sits at the end of the driveway, the driver leaning halfway out the window. Her expression is sharp with irritation but there’s something in her rushed movements that speaks more of urgency than anger.

“Hey!” she shouts. “Hey, I’m in a rush—are you planning on moving that thing today, or are we just blocking roads for fun?”

I straighten, taking in the woman glaring at me. She’s wearing a ball cap pulled low over her face, a plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and jeans that look like they’ve seen every type of dirt Bardstown has to offer. Her eyes narrow, and I’m pretty sure she’s daring me to test her patience.

“Good morning to you, too,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Just give me a minute.”

She huffs, crossing her arms. “A minute? I’ve got places to be, city boy.”

City boy. The truck in the driveway completely gives me away with its New York address. Her barb stings more than it should, but I push the thought aside and hold up my hands. “All right, all right. I’ll move it.”

I climb into the cab of the moving truck and start the engine, pulling the massive vehicle off to the side of the driveway. The woman doesn’t wait for an invitation. She presses down on the gas and zooms past me, leaving a cloud of dust in her wake.

I watch her go, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. Feisty. I’ll give her that.

By the time I’m unloading the first box, I hear her truck again. This time, it’s parked in the driveway next to mine, and she’s stalking toward me.

“You’re the new neighbor, then?” she asks, planting her hands on her hips.

“That depends. Are you always this friendly to your new neighbors, or am I just lucky?”

Her lips twitch like she’s deciding whether to laugh or yell at me. “Sorry if I came off a little harsh earlier—it’s been a morning. I’m Riley,” she says. “And I’m here to set some ground rules.”

“Ground rules?”

“Yeah.” She nods, eyes narrowing. “Like no early-morning construction noise, and please try not to block the path. I don’t mean to sound harsh—I just work odd hours sometimes. I had an urgent meeting this morning and almost missed it trying to get around your parking job. Also, no trash blowing onto my property. And keep your city nonsense to yourself.”

“Got it,” I say, biting back a laugh. “My name is Ethan, by the way. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” she says, turning on her heel. “Don’t think I’m going to be your welcome committee. But… welcome to Bardstown, I guess.”

As she stalks off, I catch a brief, almost hesitant glance over her shoulder before she disappears. Feisty, sure—but I suspect there’s more to her than that.

Maybe Bardstown might not be as quiet as I’d imagined.

I stand in the middle of the living room, hands on my hips, surveying the mountain of boxes scattered across the polished hardwood floor. The house is quiet now, the only sound coming from the distant chirp of crickets outside. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos of the moving truck, the honking, and, of course, Riley, my fiery new neighbor.

My lips twitch at the thought of her—her sharp voice, the way she barked at me like I’d personally ruined her day. She’s nothing like the women I grew up around. Those women never raised their voices, always spoke in carefully rehearsed tones, and smiled even when they didn’t mean it.

Maybe she was having a bad day, or maybe that’s just who she is. Either way, she left an impression.

But there’s no time to dwell on Riley or her not-so-warm welcome. I have a house to unpack, and if I’m going to live here, I might as well get started.

I grab the first box, marked Kitchen , and carry it toward the sleek, modern counters. Though grand and steeped in Bardstown history, the house has been updated with all the trappings of contemporary luxury. Stainless steel appliances, a wine fridge, marble countertops—everything screams “rich and proper,” the very image of this exclusive estate.

Setting the box down, I pause momentarily, running my fingers along the edge of the counter. This is a far cry from the city life I left behind .

Growing up in my family, appearances were everything: the perfect suits, the perfect house, the perfect family dinner where no one dared mention the elephant in the room. My father built his real estate empire from nothing, and the weight of that legacy has loomed over me for as long as I can remember.

For years, I did everything I was supposed to do. I wore the tailored suits, worked the endless hours, and shook hands with men I didn’t trust, all to uphold the Wilson name. I was the dutiful son, the heir to my father’s empire.

But the truth is, I never wanted it.

I glance around the house; its grandeur is a quiet rebellion against the life I was expected to lead. Buying this estate in Bardstown wasn’t just about escaping the city—it was about escaping them: my father, my mother, their expectations, and the suffocating grip of their approval.

The final straw came last month at one of those glittering black-tie galas my parents love to throw. Dad introduced me to yet another business partner’s daughter, a perfect blonde with a perfect pedigree. She was everything he thought I needed in a wife, someone who could fit seamlessly into our world of champagne toasts and carefully curated power plays.

That night, I felt like I was drowning. I spent the entire evening faking smiles and polite conversation, all the while feeling like I was losing pieces of myself.

The next morning, I put in my notice at Wilson it’s the idea of slowing down, of stepping off the treadmill I’ve been on for years.

The life I left behind wasn’t mine. This one might not be simple, but at least it’s mine.

I ’ve just started unpacking the kitchen box when my phone buzzes on the counter. The screen lights up with a name I know too well.

Mia.

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose before answering. “What now, Mia?”

“What now?” she echoes mockingly. “Is that how you greet your beloved cousin? Ethan, darling, you’re a country boy now. Where’s the Southern charm? ”

“You’re confusing me with someone who grew up south of the Bronx,” I reply, smirking. “What’s up?”

“What’s up is that I’ve been dying to hear how Bardstown is treating you,” she says, her tone turning conspiratorial. “How’s the estate? Have you managed to alienate the locals yet, or are you saving that for week two?”

“I might’ve already checked that box,” I admit, pulling another box off the counter and opening it. “I had a run-in with the neighbor earlier. She’s… intense.”

“Oh, this should be good,” Mia says, laughing. “Give me all the details.”

I recount the driveway fiasco with Riley, from the horn-blaring to the whole “city boy” debacle. By the time I finish, Mia’s cackling like she just won the lottery.

“She called you city boy? Oh, that’s fantastic. You are a walking, talking New Yorker stereotype, after all.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter.

“So, who is this woman, anyway?” she asks, still chuckling. “She sounds… colorful.”

“She’s just my neighbor,” I say, though her name already feels heavier in my mouth than I’d like. “Riley something. I didn’t catch her last name.”

“Ah, Riley Caldwell,” Mia says casually.

I blink. “Wait, what? How do you know that?”

“Through Dotty,” she explains as if I’m supposed to already know who Dotty is. “Dotty is Riley’s aunt, and happens to be your next-door neighbor. I told you about her, remember? She’s one of my book club friends.”

I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Great. So Riley and Dotty are related. That’s just what I needed.”

“Oh, come on,” Mia says, her tone dripping with amusement. “Dotty’s harmless. And Riley… well, she sounds like she’s got a lot on her plate. You’ve always been drawn to people with a little fire, haven’t you?”

“You’re imagining things,” I say, shaking my head. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Yet,” Mia counters.

I can already hear the wheels turning in her head, so I try to change the subject. “You’re not calling just to snoop, are you? This wouldn’t happen to be about my parents, would it?”

“Me? Spying on you?” she gasps, offended. “Never.”

“Mia,” I say firmly. “Tell me the truth.”

“Fine,” she relents. “Your mother asked me to check in. But only because she’s worried about you! You know how they are. They can’t stand the idea of their golden boy living without twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

I shake my head, trying to keep my voice steady. “They’re halfway around the world, Mia. I doubt they’re losing sleep over me.”

“You’d be surprised,” she says, her voice softening. “They’re just… not great at showing it, that’s all.”

I let out a hollow laugh. “That’s one way to put it. ”

“You know they only pushed you so hard because they saw how capable you were,” Mia adds. “You can’t fault them for wanting the best for you.”

“I’m not faulting them,” I reply. “I just needed a break. That’s all.”

Mia pauses, then changes the subject. “Anyway, you’ll be seeing me plenty enough. You’ll have to stop in at my flower shop soon, too!”

I raise an eyebrow. “Please tell me you’re not keeping tabs on me for Mom and Dad.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she says breezily. “I want to hang out with one of my favorite cousins—” she ignores my cynical snort, “—and Emma and Sam are off on vacation for a couple of weeks. It’s boring without my best friend to entertain me. And also maybe drink some wine.”

“You’re going to micromanage me, aren’t you?”

“Only a little,” she teases. “Besides, someone has to keep you in line. You’re an unsupervised rich boy in small-town America. That’s a recipe for disaster if I’ve ever heard one.”

I shake my head, laughing despite myself. “Fine. But you’d better bring decent wine. No boxed stuff.”

“Deal,” she says, her voice warm again. “And Ethan… don’t let Bardstown scare you off. I have a feeling this place is going to be good for you. You’ll probably be hosting garden parties and waving at neighbors by Christmas.”

My first impression of this place wasn’t so bad, actually. It feels like an awakening of some sort, but I’m not ready to tell Mia that.

I pocket my phone and grab another box from the truck labeled Bedroom—Fragile .

The second floor is a labyrinth of empty rooms, waiting to be filled with furniture I haven’t bought yet. I push open the door to the main bedroom and set the box down near the window. The space is massive, with tall ceilings and a view overlooking the sprawling backyard. There’s an old fountain out there, its stone edges worn smooth by time. It’s probably useless now, but I can already picture it restored, water sparkling in the sunlight.

I open the box and sift through its contents: a stack of cufflinks in a velvet case, a collection of designer watches, and a photo of my cousin Sam and me at a gala a few years back.

I stare at the picture for a moment, shaking my head with a grin. The tuxedo, the champagne flute, the arm slung casually around a woman I can’t even remember—classic Ethan, or at least the version of me everyone saw. The playboy persona. Always smiling, always charming, always keeping things easy and light.

I set the photo on the dresser, the grin fading from my face. That guy—the one with the crooked smile and endless confidence—wasn’t entirely fake. But he wasn’t the whole story, either.

I move back downstairs to the living room, dragging a heavy box of books to the new shelf. I start stacking them one by one, running my fingers over the spines. “The Art of the Pitch,” “How to Win Clients and Influence Deals,” and a few Hemingway classics mixed in for balance.

I slide the last book into place and step back, staring at the shelf. The titles look foreign now, like they belong to someone else. Maybe they do. The person who read them, who built a life around their lessons, feels like a shadow in the corner—familiar but distant. I glance toward the window, where the light is fading fast, painting the room in shades of gray. Somewhere in Bardstown, my next chapter is waiting. And for the first time in years, I’m starting to believe I can write it the way I want.