Play Pretend (Cedar Ridge #1)

Willow

willow

One Year Ago

F ive years ago, I vowed to leave men in the past. They did nothing but break my heart and leave me wanting more. And because I once believed my worth resided between my legs, being single wasn’t the best option—it was the only option.

Despite knowing this, seeing my hot, grumpy neighbor chop wood in our shared front yard made me want to throw those vows in the garbage and watch them burn.

Ronan’s biceps bulged as he gripped the axe handle in both hands and lifted it above his head. With a swift, practiced motion, he brought the blade down, splitting the log cleanly in two, sending wood chips flying through the fading light.

The muffled thud echoed through the sleepy cul-de-sac as he slammed the axe’s sharp end into the ground, letting the wood tumble to either side of the chopping block. He pulled off his baseball hat, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and ran his fingers through his short, dark hair. His chest rose and fell with deep, steady breaths, and I found myself unconsciously matching him.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I followed his gaze to the tree-lined street ahead. The sun slowly dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in watercolor shades of pink and purple. Shadows brightened with a hazy orange hue, and the grass seemed impossibly more vibrant. The soft buzz of crickets wove through the air like a soft, coaxing lullaby.

This was why I left everything behind. This was why I chose Cedar Ridge.

Ronan twisted his cap backward and yanked the axe from the ground, lifting it high once more. My mouth watered as I watched his forearms—thick, corded—and the way his back muscles shifted under the sweat-soaked fabric of his navy T-shirt.

I wanted to peel that shirt from his body and lick him clean. To bathe in his warm scent—pine with a sharp edge of sweat that was somehow never unpleasant, always addictive. I wanted to bask in his presence, to draw his gaze and hold it, preening under his full attention.

I wanted to show him everything he could have…if he’d only look my way.

“?” My father’s voice jolted me back to reality. The dim light of my little apartment felt oppressive as I turned from the window, the steady thump, thump, thump of Ronan’s axe grounding me. “You there?”

“Yeah, sorry.” I forced out a laugh, curling my feet beneath me on the couch. My hand drifted to my throat, tracing soothing lines as I worked to steady my breathing. “I’m in the middle of cooking dinner.”

It was a lie. Part of me wondered if he knew—or if he even cared. I doubted it. His tired sigh filled the silence, a sound so familiar it tightened the grip of old anxieties around my chest.

Even though he’d supposedly changed , the years I’d spent attuning myself to his moods had left their mark. I could still gauge his temper by the way he breathed—or the weight of his footsteps.

It was burned into my psyche, forever a part of me I’d never shake.

No matter how many miles separated us or how much time passed, it was always there—lingering at the edges of who I was. I saw it in everyone. I adjusted myself, changed parts of myself, for them because of him .

“Will you be here for Christmas?” he asked.

I roughly cleared my throat, giving myself a moment to steady my voice.

Thump .

“I said I will be.”

Silence fell between us again, thick and uncomfortable. Why did he keep asking? The holidays weren’t for another eight months. Maybe it was the only question he could think of.

What a sad thought.

How could we share the same blood and have nothing to say to each other? How could two people so closely related feel like strangers? It wasn’t just a simple question—it was lazy. It felt like a placeholder, a way to avoid real effort.

It wasn’t about caring. It was easier for him to stick to surface-level conversations than try to truly know me.

And maybe it was easier for me, too—to keep him at arm’s length. If he’d abandoned me once, he’d do it again. He abandoned me emotionally every time he brought up my stepsister and his new family, every time he dismissed my life. He did it over and over, with no care or remorse.

As if on cue, he said, “Vanessa and Grant are moving into their new house soon.”

I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the couch. My teeth sank into my bottom lip, the bite of pain pushing away the emotion threatening to climb into my chest.

“I wish you could see it,” he continued.

“It looks gorgeous from the photos you’ve sent.”My words came out ragged, each syllable forced past my stiff lips.

I pried my eyes open, staring at the rainbows refracted across the ceiling from the film on my window. Decaying vines crawled up the walls and stretched across the ceiling, held in place by small hooks, like a floating, dying garden. They drooped, lifeless, but I knew I could revive them. I just needed to try a little harder.

“It’s four bedrooms, so they—” Can grow into it , I mentally finished.

“And—” Three bathrooms .

“A fire pit outside that’ll be perfect for—” Summer cookouts.

He droned on, describing a house I’d already heard about a million times. I hadn’t seen the place in person, yet I knew every inch of it. It wasn’t the house itself that stung, but the approval in his tone—the pride .

Twisting, I glanced over my shoulder through the window. Ronan stacked the chopped wood into a neat pile before grabbing another log and setting it up. His fingers tapped along the wooden handle, then he lifted it above his head.

What would it be like to be loved by a man like him? A man who didn’t take the easy way out, who put in the hard work. Someone who wouldn’t make me feel like second best or too much trouble. Someone who would see me as something more than a burden.

Someone who wouldn’t make me feel guilty for expecting the bare minimum—for wanting my basic needs met.

Ronan slammed the axe into the ground and lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. The sight of his chiseled abs, lightly dusted with hair, sent a wave of heat through me.

As if sensing my gaze, he looked around. I ducked lower behind the couch, my heart hammering in my chest. Our eyes met through the window—or at least I thought they did. Did he know I was watching him?

It was dark in my apartment, and the frilly, off-white curtain separated us, hopefully hiding me.

Maybe he felt my gaze burning into him. Maybe he felt my desperation—not for his body, or even his attention, but the desperation to get off the fucking phone with my dad.

“You’re still working at the bakery?” My father’s words pulled me back again, and I exhaled slowly.

“Yeah, Dad. I still work there.”

“And you still like living there?”

“Yep. I love it.”

A beat of silence stretched between us, and I knew what was coming before he even said it. “So, there’s no chance I can convince you to move back home?” His laugh was tight, strained, but I didn’t so much as smile.

It was a conversation we’d had since the second I announced I was leaving. At first, he’d thought it was a joke, a pipe dream. But then my car was packed, I was heading out, and he realized it was all real.

Sometimes I wondered if he kept asking because he missed me, but the logical part of my mind knew the truth: he wanted control. Maybe not even consciously, but somewhere deep down, he had to know that his only driving force in life was to control everyone around him. He couldn’t fathom anyone surviving without his constant input, his meddling, his unwanted advice.

Yet…here I was.

Perhaps not thriving , but I was living . And that was more than I could say for him—or for anyone I left behind.

“No,” I said gently. “This is my home now.”

It had been for years.

More silence followed, heavy with unspoken arguments. When would he accept this place as my home? Ohio had always felt like prison, but Cedar Ridge—Maine? It felt more like home than anywhere ever had.

“It just seems like you never do anything,” he said, his words snaking around my throat, tightening until I could barely breathe. “You work and go home. You don’t do anything. You don’t go anywhere?—”

“I go to the lighthouse all the time,” I interrupted, and he scoffed.

“That damn lighthouse.”

My stomach dropped. Emotion burned the back of my nose, and I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the tears away.

I couldn’t allow it.

“You don’t have a life there,” he continued. “You don’t have any friends. You don’t have a boyfriend?—”

“Yes, I do,” I blurted.

My eyes flew open as soon as I realized what I’d said. Dread pooled in my stomach, and I wanted to rewind, to snatch the words back.

More silence. Then a harsh exhale, the speaker crackling with static. The weight of that lie crashed down around me, and I collapsed deeper into the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Why did I say that?

“You didn’t mention you were seeing anyone.”

I picked at the dry skin on my lip, cursing myself.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

“It’s still new,” I muttered. “We’ve only been on a few dates.”

Silence.

A throat cleared.

Another thump of the axe against wood.

“What’s his name? Tell me about him.”

My limbs trembled as I tried to steady myself, but my breathing was ragged, and my heart was thundering in my chest. How fast could it beat before it gave out? I felt like I was moments away from finding out.

I pushed up on my knees and turned, bracing my free hand on the back of the couch. I watched Ronan drop another log by his door before he turned to clean up the mess in our front yard. Any other time, I’d march out there and give him hell about all the wood chips littering the ground. But right now, I could barely think.

Could barely breathe.

My lips were numb and frozen, but I forced them to move.

“His name is Ronan,” I nearly whispered, too afraid to speak louder in case could somehow hear me through the glass. “And he’s my neighbor.”

Should I be worried that lying was so easy? That the words fell from my lips like honey? I never thought of myself as a good liar, but apparently, I had a real knack for it.

“Where did you go on your date? How did it go? Come on, give me some details.” His laugh was strained again, and my stomach twisted further.

I knew that laugh. It wasn’t good.

“We went to the beach. He took me to the lighthouse, and we walked along the shoreline. It was…really nice.”

“That’s all you’ll tell me?” The tension in his voice was clear, despite his attempt to keep it light. Was he genuinely upset I hadn’t shared this part of my life with him?

But why would I? Every conversation we’d had my entire life had been stilted, and when we did speak, it was always about Vanessa and how perfect she was, or about how amazing his life was now. I didn’t fit in it anymore. No matter how much I tried to work my way through the cracks, slither into his world, it never worked.

So I’d stopped trying.

“There’s not much more to say.” My gaze stayed on Ronan as he finished cleaning up. “He’s nice and funny…”

And completely out of my league. He drives me nuts with his power tools at all hours of the night. Oh, and this entire story is a freaking lie.

I should’ve kept quiet. I should’ve let him drone on about Vanessa. Because at least then the focus wouldn’t be on me. Instead, I stupidly invited him into a life I’d spent years cultivating to get away from him and the life I left behind.

Here, no one knew who I was before. I was just , the girl who worked at the bakery and had a weird obsession with the lighthouse. They didn’t know me as Vanessa’s stepsister—they didn’t even know who she was, and there was freedom in that.

I waited for him to say something else, but silence stretched on. The distant chirping of evening birds filled my ears as I watched Ronan stack the last of the wood, his strong, deliberate movements almost hypnotic.

The longer I watched, the more I felt like a voyeur in my own life, caught between past and present, between the life I was running from and the life I was aching to build.

“I need to go,” I finally said, my voice soft yet surprisingly firm. “I need to get ready for the week.”

There was a long sigh before he said, “I’ll let you get back to it, then. I’d love to hear more about Roman?—”

“Ronan,” I corrected, and he let out a low chuckle that grated down my nerves.

“Right. Of course.”

I bit my lip, fighting all the words clawing to be set free. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Take care of yourself.”

I waited for more, for anything that would remotely sound like a father signing off a phone call with his daughter, but he said nothing else. He left it at that—at the words of a near stranger.

If it weren’t for the shared blood coursing through our veins, that was all we would ever be: strangers .

I sat there long after he’d hung up, the phone still pressed to my ear. The silence of my apartment settled around me, and the tension I’d been holding in my shoulders since the second I answered slowly melted away.

Ronan leaned against the wall by his door, his back to me. The last light of the day cast a hazy golden halo around him. He pushed off the house and stooped to grab the chopped wood before disappearing into his side of the duplex. The full weight of my lie settled on my chest like an elephant.

Why had I said that? It was such a stupid lie. Maybe Dad will forget about it by the next time we spoke. If not, I could always lie again and say things didn’t work out.

No one ever needed to know about this—it started and died tonight. It was nothing but a passing comment, something to appease my father for a short time. He never remembered anything I told him, anyway.

He likely wouldn’t remember this.