Chapter 2RILEY
CHAPTER 2
RILEY
I march back into the house, muttering under my breath as I yank off my gardening glove and toss it onto the kitchen counter. My other hand rubs at the growing tension in my neck as I glare at nothing in particular. I could have actually missed my important meeting with the landscape architect today if I hadn't gotten out there in time to see him standing by the moving truck.
Of all the people who could’ve moved into the estate next door, of course, it had to be him. The fancy moving truck, the tailored shirt, and that ridiculous smirk. City Boy through and through. I swear I can still hear his overly polite tone, dripping with condescension: Good morning to you, too.
Maybe I was harsh, but who blocks a driveway on a Monday morning ?
“Argh,” I groan, slamming the fridge door shut after grabbing a bottled water.
The sound of humming floats in from the back door. Aunt Dotty’s in the garden again, trimming her roses and chatting with her plants as if they’re old friends. I take a deep breath, reminding myself to keep my voice even. She doesn’t need to deal with my mood swings.
I step out onto the porch, and the late morning sun washes over me. Aunt Dotty is in her usual spot near the rose bushes, her floppy sun hat casting a shadow over her lined but warm face. A watering can sit by her feet, and she’s holding pruning shears like a painter with a brush.
When she looks up and sees me, her smile falters. “Well, what’s gotten into you, sugar?” she asks, her Southern twang as soothing as ever. “That’s not the kind of face you wear on a beautiful morning like this.”
“That’s the face you get when your new neighbor blocks your driveway with his oversized truck and acts like it’s your fault,” I say, plopping onto the wooden bench by the garden bed.
Aunt Dotty chuckles softly, cutting another rose and adding it to the basket on her arm. “Oh, so you’ve met Mia’s cousin, then?”
I blink. “Wait, Mia’s cousin?”
“Mm-hmm,” Aunt Dotty says, still focused on her roses. “She mentioned he’d be moving in soon. Ethan. She said he needs a fresh start, bless his heart.”
I groan, leaning my head back against the bench. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Mia? That explains everything. He reeks of a ‘city boy trying to be rustic.’ I bet he thinks owning a flannel shirt makes him one of us.”
Aunt Dotty hides a smile behind her shears, but I catch it anyway.
“I mean, have you seen him?” I press on, crossing my arms. “Perfectly tailored pants, not a single hair out of place. Probably spends more on his skincare than I do on my entire wardrobe.”
Aunt Dotty hums in response, which only makes me more determined to vent.
“And the way he talks,” I continue, my voice rising. “All polite and smooth, like he’s trying to charm his way out of anything. I don’t care how rich or successful he is—he’s just another spoiled city boy who thinks he can stroll in here and fit right in.”
Aunt Dotty finally turns to me, her expression calm but amused. “Now, sugar, don’t you think you’re being a little harsh? You’ve only just met the man.”
I shrug, my fingers twisting the hem of my shirt. I will not mention how handsome I find the new neighbor. That would only add fuel to Aunt Dotty’s fire. “Maybe. But guys like that always seem too good to be true, you know?”
Aunt Dotty shakes her head, walking over to the bench and sitting beside me. She pats my knee gently. “Riley, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, but sometimes you’re a little quick to judge. Why not give him a chance? Maybe this ‘city boy’ isn’t as bad as you think. Stranger things have happened. ”
I snort. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Aunt Dotty lets out a soft laugh, leaning back and looking out at the garden. “Well, if he’s anything like Mia, he’ll be persistent. You might want to pace yourself, sugar.”
T he bell above the door jingles as I step behind the counter, the familiar sound filling the hardware store. The faint smell of sawdust and metal is oddly comforting, grounding me in a place where I’m in control. My sanctuary.
“Morning, Riley!” old Mr. Harper calls out from the aisle, squinting at the wall of nails. He’s one of my regulars, always tinkering with something in his workshop.
“Morning, Mr. Harper,” I reply, flashing him a quick smile. “Let me know if you need help.”
He waves me off, muttering something about “getting it right this time.”
I glance at the clock and sigh. It’s been a slow morning, which isn’t unusual for a weekday.
The bell jingles again, and a harried-looking woman with a toddler on her hip rushes in, glancing around like she’s on a mission.
“Hi there,” I say, stepping out from behind the counter. “Need some help?”
“Yes, please,” she says, shifting the squirming toddler to her other hip. “The lock on my back door’s busted, and my husband’s out of town. I don’t even know where to start.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, already moving toward the aisle with door hardware. “I’ve got you covered.”
She follows me, balancing the toddler while rattling off details about the door and the lock. I nod, pulling down a sturdy replacement lockset. “This should work for you. It’s durable, easy to install, and comes with instructions.”
Her shoulders slump in relief. “Oh, thank you. But… I’ve never done anything like this before. What if I mess it up?”
I smile, grabbing a screwdriver set from the shelf. “You won’t. I’ll show you exactly what to do.”
We head to the counter, where I pull out a demo lock I keep for situations like this. Setting it on the counter, I walk her through each step—removing the old lock, aligning the new one, and tightening the screws. She watches intently, her confidence growing with each instruction.
When I hand her the lock and screwdriver, her shoulders relax a little. “It’s easier than it looks,” I say, my tone softer now. “You’ve got this.”
She grins. “Thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Just let me know how it goes,” I reply as she heads to the register.
Watching her leave, I feel that familiar pride settle in. This is why I love running the store—helping people feel like they can handle things they thought they couldn’t.
L ater that evening, the comforting smell of Aunt Dotty’s pot roast fills the house, and I take a deep breath, letting the warmth of the meal soothe me. Aunt Dotty moves around the kitchen with the same practiced ease she’s had for years, her apron on and her hair pulled back in a neat bun like she’s preparing for another perfect dinner.
I grab a plate and sit down at the table, the weight of the day catching up to me. The garden, the store, and the new boy next door.
Aunt Dotty ladles the gravy onto my mashed potatoes, her eyes twinkling as she places the dish in front of me. I try to settle into the familiar rhythm of our dinners, but she’s got that look—the one that says she’s about to push my buttons.
“So, sugar,” she begins casually, setting the serving bowl of green beans on the table. “Tell me about our new neighbor. Ethan, right?”
I freeze for a moment, my fork hovering just above my plate. “Aunt Dotty, you told me his name, so no need to play dumb. And I already told you about him.”
“Oh, I know you did,” she says, taking a seat across from me, her grin wide. “But you didn’t really tell me what you think of him. You know, not everyone can pull off that ‘city boy’ charm so effortlessly.”
I roll my eyes and try to stay nonchalant, cutting into my roast. “He’s not charming, Aunt Dotty. He’s a walking billboard for ‘I’m too good for small towns.’ He practically oozes it.”
Aunt Dotty raises an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Really? Oozing, huh?”
I can feel my cheeks flush, but I refuse to let her get to me. “Yeah. Big city attitude, fancy truck, the whole deal.”
Aunt Dotty’s eyes narrow slightly, clearly enjoying this. “Hmm. Are you sure you’re not just a little affected by his ‘city boy’ charm? You know, you’ve been living in Bardstown for a while now. And I don’t recall you getting all wound up over any of the other new arrivals.”
“I guess I’ve been on edge,” I admit, stabbing at my mashed potatoes a little harder than necessary. “But he didn’t exactly make the best first impression, either.”
Aunt Dotty leans back in her chair, casually tapping her fingers on the edge of her glass. “Oh, I see. So, no part of you noticed how handsome he is? I mean, he’s got that ‘polished’ look, but under that, there’s a certain… something. You’re telling me none of that caught your attention?”
I quickly glance up at her, my face flushing again. “Aunt Dotty, I told you—he’s annoying. I don’t care about his looks.”
“Oh, I’m sure you don’t,” Aunt Dotty says, voice dripping with sweetness. “But you do seem to be talking about him a lot for someone who doesn’t care.”
“You brought him up!” I let out a frustrated sigh, trying to hide my growing smile .
Aunt Dotty laughs, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “I’m just saying, Riley, sometimes the people we least expect can surprise us. Maybe this ‘city boy’ is exactly what you need.”
I shake my head, determined not to give in. “I’m not interested in him, period. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Aunt Dotty leans in closer, her voice low but teasing. “And yet, somehow, that guy is the one you’re talking about the most. You sure there’s nothing else behind that ‘annoying’ exterior?”
I groan, putting my head in my hands. “Aunt Dotty, I’m really not in the mood for your matchmaking games.”
“Oh, don’t worry, sugar,” Aunt Dotty says, sitting back in her chair with a satisfied grin. “I’m not matchmaking. Just having a little fun with you. You might find that he’s not all bad. I think you might even like him more than you’re letting on.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth. “You’re impossible.”
Aunt Dotty’s grin widens, and she pats my hand gently. “Maybe. But you know I only want the best for you, Riley. Just don’t be too quick to judge.”
I keep my mouth shut, but my mind keeps wandering back to Ethan. I try to push away the image of his grin, that self-assured gleam in his eye when he told me to give him a minute. There was something about it I can’t quite shake—and that’s what bothers me the most. I shove the thought away, unwilling to let it take root.
I pick up my fork again and mutter, “I’m not giving him a chance.”
But even as the words leave my mouth, I’m not entirely sure I believe them.