Chapter 3
IVY
By nine-thirty Monday morning, I’ve taken two walks past Sebastian’s house.
Not because I’m stalking. I’m just scoping things out to see if he’s around so I can return his sweatshirt.
He’s not outside getting his mail. Or returning from a run. Or standing on his porch looking broody and mysterious.
Every time I think about heading home, the nagging thought returns. What if he steps outside?
So I turn around and do another lap.
On my fourth time past his house, I pause at the end of his driveway, clutching his sweatshirt like a peace offering.
Okay. Enough.
I march up to his front door and knock.
No answer.
I wait a full thirty seconds—because I have manners—and knock again.
Still nothing.
He’s probably at work. Or doing important, intense Sebastian things. Like brooding into his beverage of choice. Or reorganizing his sock drawer by thread count.
I finally retreat, my dignity intact.
Mostly.
They say a walk after meals is good for you.
So I set out on the trail to get exercise and closure by returning borrowed property like a responsible adult.
I knock on his door again.
No answer.
I exhale. Okay. Fine.
It’s fine.
I’m fine.
I walk home, make tea, and stare out the window for an unreasonable amount of time. I do a load of laundry, fold it, and put it away. I unload the dishwasher, then reload it.
Out of sheer boredom and spiraling anxiety, I decide I deserve one more walk.
It’s for my mental health.
It’s six o’clock when I set out, moving briskly. The sun is setting, and the air is damp, like maybe it’ll snow. Showing up in the dark and snow... well, it’s not a great look.
I’m slightly out of breath when I cut through the yard and around the side of the house to the front door. I blow out a breath before I raise my hand and knock.
My heart pounds immediately, because this time, there are footsteps.
My mouth goes dry.
The porch light flicks on, the door opens... and there he is.
Sebastian stands barefoot in the doorway, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants and a look of mild confusion.
My eyes roam over a muscular chest, broad shoulders, and defined arms. A faint dusting of dark hair leads to the waistband of his sweatpants that I absolutely do not stare at. At all.
For the first time in my life, words abandon me completely.
He clears his throat, which jolts some life back into me.
“Oh—yeah—hi,” I manage, waving like we’re neighbors who’ve known each other forever. “I just wanted to return your sweatshirt.”
His gaze drops to my empty hands.
Then lifts.
Then drops again.
“My… non-existent sweatshirt?” he asks slowly.
Heat floods my face.
“Oh.” I glance down at my hands, a fiery blush spreading. “Oops.”
His brow creases.
“I seem to have,” I continue, mortified, “left for my walk without it.”
Silence.
Then he chuckles. It’s low, brief, and completely unfair. I like it. A lot.
“That’s okay,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”
Relief floods me. “Sorry for forgetting. And—thanks again. For Friday night.”
He nods, clearly uncomfortable. “No problem.”
We stand there, the silence stretching between us.
I fidget, my eyes lingering on his collarbone. His jaw. The way the porch light catches the sharp planes of his face.
Late twenties? Early thirties? My gaze roams over him. Definitely not from Hollow Creek. Too… solid. Too confident. Too manly.
“Well,” he says, scratching his jawline, his bicep rippling. “I need to get in the shower.”
“Oh! Yes. Sorry. I should—finish my walk.” I gesture vaguely behind me.
He nods. “Bye, Ivy.”
I smile. “Bye, Sebastian.”
I turn and head down the driveway, my heart still racing.
“Ivy.”
I stop, a slow smile spreading across my face.
He said my name.
Slowly, I turn around, trying to appear composed. “Yes?”
“How did you know where I lived?”
I shrug.
I’ve been stalking you on the internet.
“Small town.”
His gaze lingers on me for a moment, like he’s trying to decide whether I’m joking.
He doesn’t look convinced.
The door closes, and I walk away, hugging my arms across my chest.
Yup.
He definitely thinks I’m a stalker.
Which is ridiculous.
Because if I were stalking him… I wouldn’t knock on the door.