Chapter 3
Sayla
M oving into my dream home was supposed to be a fresh start. It was supposed to be a place of peace, a sanctuary from bad decisions, questionable life choices, and men with smug smiles that made my blood pressure spike. Then Roque moved in across the street. And just like that, my fresh start felt more like a sick joke the universe was playing on me.
I had no intention of acknowledging his existence. If I ignored him hard enough, maybe he’d disappear. Like a stubborn stain or an ex-boyfriend’s number I refused to delete but never actually called.
Unfortunately, small-town life—and the nosy brigade that came with it—had other ideas.
That evening, things in my new home got worse.
“Evening, Sayla!” Mrs. Hendricks, the seventy-something matriarch of Magnolia Road, called out as I wrestled a weighty box of tools from my car. “Saw your old friend Roque this morning. He was fixing his mailbox.”
I grunted, setting the box down on my porch with a dramatic thud. “Fascinating.”
“He’s such a handsome young man, isn’t he?” she continued, squinting toward his house like a birdwatcher scouting an especially rare species of smugness. “And strong. You know, he offered to carry my groceries in yesterday. Such a helpful neighbor.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes so hard they’d detach. “Mm-hmm.”
Mrs. Hendricks leaned in conspiratorially, like she was about to share the secret to immortality. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to ask him for help with that house of yours.”
I forced a tight-lipped smile. “I can handle it myself.”
That was a lie, but no way was I letting Roque, of all people, be the one to swoop in and save me.
Determined to prove my independence (and avoid all neighborly interactions), I decided to install my own shelves in the kitchen. I’d found some reclaimed wood planks online for a steal and had the stuff to attach them to the wall, so how hard could it be?
Two hours, three YouTube tutorials, and a questionable amount of cursing later, I stood back to admire my work. Perfect. Well, it was a little uneven, but the character was a thing, right?
I turned to grab my phone for a victory picture just as the entire damn shelf crashed to the ground, sending screws, brackets, and my carefully curated selection of cookbooks tumbling in an avalanche of failure.
A slow clap echoed from the front door. I knew that clap and could already feel the smugness from the person doing it.
I didn’t turn around. “Don’t say a word.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Roque said, voice dripping with amusement.
Gritting my teeth, I grabbed a hammer and started scooping up screws like I hadn’t just humiliated myself. “Aren’t you supposed to be off harassing someone else?”
He strolled inside like he owned the place, hands in his pockets, eyes too entertained. “Nope. It’s my night off.” He nodded toward the wreckage. “Looks like I picked the perfect time.”
I straightened, clutching a screwdriver like it was a weapon. “I’ve got this under control.”
Roque tilted his head, considering me like I was some particularly amusing wildlife documentary. “Really? Because it looks like the shelf won.”
I inhaled deeply, fighting the urge to throw something at his stupid, conceited face. “I do not need your help.”
“Sayla.” His tone was way too patient. “Just let me?—”
“Nope.” I spun toward the back door, shoving the screwdriver into my pocket. “I need a break.”
And by break, I meant escape.
That escape led me straight to the home improvement store, where I wandered the aisles in search of the next DIY project that wouldn’t end in tragedy. I had a list of things I wanted to change, but money was tight, so I focused on the cheapest fixes first. It was like playing renovation bingo—except I was losing spectacularly.
And then I turned the corner and saw it.
The Holy Grail of unnecessary but absolutely necessary purchases. It wasn’t on my list and definitely wasn’t a priority, but it was affordable, which meant it qualified as a responsible adult decision. And best of all? It was something I could install without any risk of Roque showing up and slow-clapping my dignity into dust. YouTube was the Bible of how to fit this stuff. I’d have it done within thirty minutes.
I queued up a video to listen to on the way home so that I understood the verbal instructions before I watched the visual ones and headed home to make it my bitch.
Or so I thought.
Roque
Through the window, I could see exactly what she was doing. Sayla, standing on her tiptoes, was attempting to attach a light fixture with the kind of determination usually reserved for brain surgery. Wires dangled, tools clattered, and she had the expression of someone who definitely should have read the instructions first.
So, naturally, I ran around to her breaker box to make sure she hadn’t forgotten to turn off the electricity. Because while she might have a death wish, I wasn’t about to stand by and let her fry herself like an unfortunate toaster pastry.
Thankfully, the previous owners had labeled each breaker clearly. And, even more thankfully, the one she was working on was already off. This is a small miracle, considering I had the distinct feeling she was winging it.
Her next attempt at homeownership domination involved changing a light fixture. I could hear the YouTube video narrating the process step-by-step, its overly cheerful host blissfully unaware of the potential disaster unfolding. Sayla had a cute but completely impractical tool belt strapped around her waist—probably more for aesthetics than actual function—and her tongue poked out in concentration as she worked.
Then the power went out. All of it. The entire house plunged into darkness like a scene from a low-budget horror film.
I sighed and knocked on her front door, ignoring the muffled cursing from inside as I did it again, just to be annoying. Because really, what were neighbors for, if not mild torment?
“Sayla,” I called through the wood separating us, my voice brimming with unrestrained amusement. “Tell me you didn’t just knock out your own electricity.”
A loud groan came through the door. It was the kind that told me Sayla was seriously considering pretending she wasn’t home—even though we both knew she was standing two feet away, probably glaring daggers at the door.
There was no way she was answering it.
Another knock, this time with extra enthusiasm. “Do I need to check your breaker box?”
“Go home, Roque,” she called, her voice closer now. I smirked, picturing her forehead pressed against the door as she silently wished me out of existence.
I gave it five seconds before deciding she had no say in this. I wasn’t about to let her sit in the dark all night out of sheer stubbornness.
So, naturally, I walked around the side of her house.
“You better not be—” she started, but it was too late.
The distinct click of the breaker flipping echoed through the night, and suddenly, the entire house powered back on like I’d just performed some electrical miracle. I did double-check that the circuit she was working on was still off—because, despite my general amusement at this whole situation, I wasn’t about to let her set her house on fire or electrocute herself.
When I got back to the front door, it was yanked open with the force of someone ready to launch into a TED Talk on personal boundaries.
“That’s cheating,” she snapped, eyes narrowed.
I shrugged. “That’s common sense.”
She glared. I smirked.
This wasn’t over.
Sayla
The next day, determined to reclaim some sense of competence, I tackled the under-the-sink leak like a boss. Armed with a wrench, a dangerously optimistic attitude, and a YouTube tutorial that made the whole process look insultingly easy, I wedged myself into the cramped cabinet space. And then I went to war with a pipe that had no interest in cooperating.
Just as I finally managed to get a grip, disaster struck. My shirt snagged on a pipe, locking me in place like some unfortunate human Tetris piece. Before I could process my predicament, my front door creaked open like the universe had been waiting for the perfect moment to humiliate me further.
“Sayla?”
Oh, for the love of?—
“I’m busy,” I called, my voice muffled by the sheer weight of my impending embarrassment.
A brief silence followed before I heard footsteps.
“Are you stuck?” Roque’s voice carried an unmistakable edge of amusement, the kind that made my jaw tighten with immediate irritation.
“No,” I lied, which would have been far more convincing if I hadn’t been immobilized by my plumbing.
He made a sound—one hundred percent a laugh, even if he tried to stifle it.
“I can get out,” I insisted, yanking my arm in a move that was meant to be triumphant but instead resulted in the entire cabinet rattling ominously while I remained firmly trapped.
Silence stretched between us, thick with his barely contained amusement, before he let out a low chuckle.
“I swear to everything holy,” I warned, voice laced with impending murder, “if you take a picture, I will end you.”
“Tempting,” Roque mused, crouching beside me, making no effort to hide his amusement. “Want some help?”
I inhaled sharply, every fiber of my being screaming no, but my shirt was still stubbornly stuck, my arm had begun to cramp, and, worst of all, I could practically hear Mrs. Hendricks’ voice in my head praising Roque for being such a “helpful young man.”
Swallowing my pride—and with it, any last shred of dignity—I muttered, “Fine.”
“Sorry, what was that?” he asked, and I highly suspected he was grinning like the menace he was.
Turning just enough to glare at him from under the sink, I ground out, “Don’t push your luck, Edwards.”
With a chuckle, he reached in, barely putting in any effort, and freed my shirt in less than two seconds.
Scowling, I scrambled out from under the sink, brushing myself off as though I hadn’t just lost a fight to household plumbing. Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, Roque watched me with the satisfied smirk of a man who had just witnessed peak entertainment.
“You know,” he said, his tone far too casual, “this would be a lot easier if you just let me help you from the start.”
I grabbed my wrench and pointed it at him. “I would rather set my house on fire.”
His smirk deepened. “I give it a week before you break something else.”
I huffed. “Then you’ll be waiting a long time.”
Spoiler alert:He was right.