Chapter 2
EMILY
The moment I stepped through my front door, the silence hit me like a slap in the face.
I dropped my purse on the hall table and kicked off my heels. They clattered against the hardwood, the sound echoing way too loudly in the empty space. My eyes automatically went to the coat rack, landing on the empty wooden peg where Mia’s denim jacket used to live.
It had been two months since she’d packed up the last of her boxes and moved in with Jack, and I still wasn’t used to the quiet.
No bad reality TV blaring from the living room.
No burned popcorn smell. Just me, the hum of the refrigerator, and the creeping realization that I was officially living alone for the first time in my life.
A heavy, cold feeling started to unfurl in my chest as my thoughts started to spiral.
Nope. Not doing this.
I needed noise. I needed color.
I beelined for my bedroom, stripping out of my work blouse and pencil skirt with a sigh of relief. I pulled on my paint-stained jeans and a soft, oversized t-shirt.
Routine. I needed the routine.
The sunroom was the one place in the house that didn’t feel empty, mostly because it was filled to the brim with my chaotic ambition. The afternoon light poured through the three walls of windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
With a deep, soothing breath, I grabbed my palette and squeezed paint onto it. Cadmium yellow. Ultramarine blue. I didn’t have a plan; I just needed the motion.
First stroke on the canvas, I could finally take a deep breath. Second stroke, and the silence in the house stopped feeling so oppressive. I was just slipping into the zone, that sweet spot where my brain finally shut up, when movement in the yard next door caught my eye.
Cam was wrestling with what looked like the skeleton of a trampoline. Metal poles and springs littered his lawn like shrapnel from a hardware store explosion. He was crouched over the instructions, which were weighed down with rocks, and even from here, the tension in his shoulders was visible.
His t-shirt was dark with sweat, sticking to his back, and his light brown hair was a mess where he’d clearly run his hands through it repeatedly.
My stomach did a traitorous little flip.
Down, girl.
He was just my neighbor. My grumpy, clearly stressed neighbor, who probably didn’t want me staring at him through my sunroom window like a creep.
Still, he should probably call someone to come help, because he definitely did not have a handle on it.
Not my problem. Paint. This is my time.
I turned back to the canvas, staring at it for far too long.
A loud crash of metal on metal echoed across the yard, followed by swearing so bad it’d make a sailor blush.
I loaded my brush with white, actively fighting the urge to look up again. Find the flow state. Ignore the hot neighbor.
Another clatter.
I looked up.
He was standing with his hands on his hips, glaring at the paper instructions as if he could intimidate them into assembling themselves.
I dragged my gaze back to my canvas, while a stream of F-bombs shot around Cam’s yard.
I couldn’t work with that soundtrack. And honestly? Neither could he. Besides, he’d fixed my tire without being asked. Even though he’d looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, he’d done it.
The next crash made my decision for me.
I dropped my palette and brush on the table and headed for the back door. “Need a hand with that?” I called from the porch railing.
He turned sharply, and I caught the full force of that green-eyed stare. His jaw tightened. Something flickered across his face that wasn’t quite annoyance, but definitely wasn’t enthusiasm either.
“No.” He straightened to his full height. “But thanks.”
Please. That was so clearly bullshit.
I crossed my arms and tilted my head. “How long until the girls get home?”
His shoulders dropped slightly as he checked his watch. “Ninety minutes.”
“And you want that all set up before they do?”
“Yeah.” His jaw worked.
“How’re you tracking?”
He looked back at the scattered metal pieces, then at me. His exhale was long and controlled. “Not good.”
“Seems like you could do with a hand, then. And, you know, I owe you one, so I’m happy to help.”
He hesitated, his hands flexing at his sides. I could practically see the argument in his head: pride versus deadline. He looked from me to the trampoline and back to the watch. “Okay, thanks. I’ll get the gate.”
I was so surprised by his acceptance that it took me a moment to realize he was crossing his yard to the gate that separated our two properties. I almost stumbled as I rushed down the steps and hurried to my side of the gate.
The bolt was old and rusty from disuse, and I heard him swear softly as he wrestled with it. It finally scraped open, and he dragged the gate wide, gesturing me through.
As I moved past him, I chose the wrong moment to take a deep breath. Holy shit, he smelled so good it made my head swim. Clean sweat and cedar and something else that made my pulse spike.
My second mistake was glancing up at him. At five foot ten, there weren’t many men I had to look up to. Jeez, he must be like six four at least. Maybe even six five.
“Three years I’ve lived here, and I didn’t even know this gate opened.” My words came out high and breathy, so that was fun.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, well, I had no reason to want to visit the previous owners.”
“No?”
He sure was quite the conversationalist, wasn’t he?
“No, they were very loud and annoying. You’re… different.”
“I like to keep to myself.”
“Makes sense. Now, where do you want me?”
Jesus Christ, why did I make that sound so suggestive?
“I’m trying to set it up over here, between these two trees, as per the diagram Audrey drew for me.”
Wasn’t that just too stinking cute?
“Well, we’d better give her what she wants. Just tell me what to do.”
He handed me a pole. “Hold this steady while I connect the joint.”
I gripped the metal where he indicated. He moved in close to line up the connection, and the air around us suddenly felt very thin.
His arm brushed mine as he worked, warm skin grazing mine.
I focused on keeping the pole from shifting rather than noticing how his forearms flexed as he tightened the bolt.
Or how his hair fell forward across his forehead when he concentrated.
Jesus, Emily. Hold the pole. That’s literally all you have to do.
“There.” He stepped back, and oxygen rushed back into my lungs. “One down.”
We moved around the frame, falling into a rhythm. Him positioning, me holding steady. My arms started to burn from holding the poles at awkward angles, but it was the good kind of ache. Better than the hollow feeling of being alone in my empty house.
“How old are your girls?” I asked as we fitted another section into place.
“Audrey’s seven and Alice is five.”
“They must be so excited about this.”
“Alice has been asking every day when it’s coming.” That soft note was back in his voice. “Pretty sure she’s going to launch herself onto it the second she sees it.”
I laughed, picturing a tiny blonde blur flying through the air. “I would’ve done the same thing at that age if my mom had let me.”
He glanced at me, a slight frown between his brows, and I realized the mention of my mom like that had made it unnecessarily weird.
“But hey, at least I learned how to walk in heels before I could ride a bike, so that’s something.” And that is not how we ease the tension. Fucking hell. I cleared my throat. “Anyway, so, um, what do you do for work? I assume trampoline installer is out?”
Oh God, was that… was that a smile?
“I’m a mover. You can let go of that now and take this for me.”
“Sure thing.”
Cam handed me the next pole. When our fingers brushed, I felt the tingles all the way up my arm.
I had to drag in air before I could speak again. “So, a mover. Do you work for yourself or someone else?”
“Myself.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah, it has its perks.”
We swapped out the next pole while I racked my brain for something else to say. “Who do I call if I ever need help to move? Like, what’s your company name?”
He hesitated for a beat, then said, “Rockford Movers.”
My mouth fell open. “R-Rockford Movers? As in the one on all the commercials? With the funny old guy who does the air guitar thing and yells ‘Rock-FORD it!’?”
“Yeah, that’s my dad.”
“Wow.”
His jaw tightened slightly as his guard slammed up. Not hostile exactly, but definitely done with this particular topic of conversation.
Right. Okay. Got it.
I focused on holding the next pole steady, letting the silence stretch. He worked methodically, eyes on the metal, avoiding my gaze. I kept my mouth shut, but my brain was racing.
Rockford Movers. The Rockford Movers. With locations all over the state and those commercials that played during every football game.
Which meant Cam wasn’t just a guy with a truck. He was... well, he was loaded. And he was living next door to me in a perfectly average ranch house, fixing his own trampoline.
Another piece of the puzzle. Grumpy. Good with his hands. Secretly loaded?
Stop it, Emily. Not your business.
“Can you hold this tighter?” His voice broke through my thoughts.
“Oh. Yeah, sorry.” I adjusted my grip, putting more pressure on the pole.
We worked in silence after that, the only sounds being the clink of metal on metal and the occasional grunt of effort. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, this quiet between us, but it wasn’t terrible either. Just two people who’d run out of small talk, focused on getting a job done.
My hands were cramping by the time we moved on to the springs. Hook, stretch, clip. Hook, stretch, clip. The repetitive motion should have been meditative, but I was too aware of him across from me. The flex of his muscles, the sweat dampening his collar.
By the time I clipped the last spring on my side, my fingers were screaming and sweat was trickling down my back. I sat back on my heels and flexed my hands, watching as Cam secured his final spring and stood.
The trampoline sat between the two oak trees exactly where Audrey had apparently planned it.
“Well.” I brushed dirt off my jeans. “That looks pretty good. The girls are going to lose their minds.”
“Yeah.” There was something soft in his expression that made my heart twist.
Okay, time to get out of here. “I should let you get cleaned up before they get home.”
“Right. Yeah.” He turned to look at me, and for a second our eyes locked. “Thanks for the help. I wouldn’t have gotten it done in time without you.”
“Don’t mention it.” I was already moving toward the gate. “You helped me with my tire, I helped you with your trampoline. We’re even now.”
“Fair enough.”
I stepped through the gate back into my yard, and he followed to close it behind me. The bolt scraped as he slid it back into place, and just like that, we were on opposite sides of the fence again.
“Enjoy the squealing,” I called over my shoulder.
“I’m sure the whole neighborhood will hear it.”
I laughed and climbed my porch steps, feeling the weight of his gaze on my back until I reached the door. It took every ounce of willpower I had not to turn around.