Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Galeana
I’m not sure who’s knocking at my door, but they’ve got terrible timing.
The afternoon sun pours through the towering windows of my grandfather’s mansion, stretching long shadows across the polished wooden floors. The house is still too much for me—too big, too empty, too full of ghosts I didn’t invite. I’m trying to make it feel like a home, but it still reeks of legacy and expectations. Neither of which I’m sure I can handle.
Will I get to keep it?
Obviously not because I’ve yet to find a suitor. Someone who’ll be okay marrying me, signing an ironclad prenup, and . . . well I’m not sure what other qualifications he should have. This would be a great time to call Aiden and discuss it but so far I haven’t told her about the clause.
God knows she’d jump at the opportunity to make a list of “eligible men,” most of them disasters waiting to happen wanting a piece of my inheritance. Love her, but she has a special talent for picking losers. Not that I’m much better.
The knock comes again, more insistent this time.
I glance at the door, a frown tugging at my lips. It’s probably someone from the town—the kind of person who shows up unannounced with a casserole and an opinion about how I should be running Maple Haven. People love to do that around here.
With a sigh, I set down the vase I’ve been rearranging for the third time today and make my way to the door. I yank it open, already preparing my polite-but-dismissive smile.
But it’s not a townie standing there. Instead, I’m greeted by him .
Ledger Timberbridge.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, looking unfairly good in dark jeans and a button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows. His sharp jawline is slightly scruffy, like he hasn’t bothered shaving, and his stupid blue eyes lock onto mine with that same infuriating confidence that makes my stomach twist.
And then I notice what he’s holding.
In one hand, a bouquet of flowers—wildflowers, not the overly polished florist kind. In the other, a basket filled with strawberries, chocolates, and a bottle of champagne.
I blink. “Are you stalking me?”
He scoffs, like the question offends him. “Excuse me?”
“How do you know I live here?” I cross my arms, already on edge.
“Small towns,” he says with an irritating shrug. “Everyone knows where your grandfather lived. It’s obvious you’d be here.”
Ugh. Of course. Birchwood Springs has better intel than the CIA. It’s a better search engine than Google. You stop one person on the street for directions, and they’ll give you a full town history plus a breakdown of everyone’s personal lives in under a minute.
“What do you want, Ledger?”
His grin deepens, infuriatingly smug. “I brought you Italy.” He holds up the basket like it’s some grand offering. “Thought we’d pick up where we left off. I’m hoping this time you won’t run away.”
I blink, my brain short-circuiting for a moment. Italy. Nope. I don’t want Italy with his dares and my . . .
“If you know who I am, how could you possibly proposition me?” I screech, instinctively taking a step back.
He doesn’t get to enjoy anything—not with me. Not when he’s my cousin, for God’s sake, and probably here to take what’s mine. No. Absolutely not.
His brows furrow in confusion. “Proposition? Galeana—can I call you Ana?”
“Galeana. The name is Galeana ,” I say with a warning. Only people close to me are allowed to give me a nickname.
Aiden and Mom called me Gale. Chase called me Gal—not the best—and some people had called me Ana. But this guy, my cousin who by the way wants to take away my inheritance, should call me Ms. Monroe and stay three hundred feet away from me.
“Okay, Galeana ,” he says, emphasizing my name. “I brought you Italy. We were getting to know each other, having fun, and boom. You disappeared in the middle of the night.”
He’s wrong, it was early in the morning but I’m not going to correct him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
His grin widens, and he steps inside without waiting for an invitation, setting the basket on the entryway table. “Liar,” he says lightly, plucking a strawberry from the basket. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
I glare at him, my skin prickling as his presence fills the massive foyer. This house is enormous—an actual mansion—and yet, somehow, he makes it feel smaller. Like he’s claiming space just by breathing.
“You can’t just barge into my house,” I say, closing the door behind him. “What if I was busy?”
“Were you?” His lips twitch around the question, the tease evident in his voice.
“That’s not the point,” I snap, hating how flustered I sound.
“Relax, darling.” He leans casually against the table, his posture all lazy confidence. “I came to apologize.”
I falter, caught off guard. “For what?”
“For earlier,” he says, his voice softening slightly. “The car. The crowd. And for being an asshole.”
“Oh,” I mutter, unsure what to do with this version of him. “That’s nice of you.”
“Don’t get used to it.” He winks, holding up the champagne. “But I figured since we didn’t finish last time, we could try again. A proper do-over.”
My chest tightens, and I hate the way my defenses start to wobble. “This isn’t Italy,” I say, even though my voice lacks the bite I want it to have. “And you and I can’t . . . this isn’t right. Your family . . .”
“Why not?” He steps closer, his voice dropping just enough to make my stomach flip. “We’re not Romeo and Juliet. This isn’t some tragic love story.”
“For starters, you want what’s mine,” I snap, glaring up at him.
“Oh, I already told you that.” He grins. “But we can sit and discuss exactly how I want it.”
The words hit a little too close to home, and I square my shoulders, refusing to let him see the cracks in my armor. “Why are you really here?”
“I wanted to see you,” he says simply.
My stomach flips, and I hate how easily he gets under my skin. “Why?” I insist, wondering if I should call the sheriff. Does 9-1-1 work here? Of course it does, Galeana. What are you thinking? It’s Ledger’s fault, he flusters me with his presence and my brain stops working properly.
He shrugs, annoyingly calm. “Because ever since Italy, I’ve been wondering what it would’ve been like if you’d stayed.”
I blink, his words hitting harder than they should. Stayed? What does that even mean? It doesn’t matter. It would’ve been wrong. So fucking wrong. Doesn’t he see that? Maybe this is why my mother ran away because her father . . . what if her father was trying to marry her to a cousin? I should pack and forget about this town.
“Maple Haven isn’t worth this,” I mutter under my breath, but I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince.
He smiles, that slow, crooked smile that’s been haunting my thoughts since I met him. It’s the kind of smile that promises trouble wrapped in charm, and damn it, my stomach betrays me with a flutter.
“Relax, darling. I’m not here to propose or do anything dramatic. Just a drink. A fresh start. No games, no dares. Just us.”
My throat tightens, my pulse thrumming in my ears. “You need to leave.”
He doesn’t move, not an inch. Instead, he picks up a strawberry from the basket, biting into it with an almost sinful slowness, his gaze locked on mine like he’s daring me to look away. “But darling, think about what we could do together. What we could be.” His voice dips lower, smoother, each word a tantalizing promise.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Leave,” I insist, sharper this time, trying to ignore the way his presence seems to fill the room, making it harder to breathe.
“You can’t just disregard me like that,” he says, stepping closer, his tone soft but laced with playful defiance. “This is destiny in the making, and you know it.”
Destiny? My ass. “Absolutely not,” I snap. “Get out.”
He flashes that infuriating grin again, leaning in just enough that I catch the faintest scent of his cologne—clean, woodsy, and annoyingly perfect. “Don’t say I didn’t try to play nice, darling.” His voice turns flirty, the words rolling off his tongue like a caress. “I’d hate to resort to more . . . persuasive methods.”
My breath hitches, and I glare up at him, summoning every ounce of strength I have to hold my ground. “You’re impossible.”
“I want to think I’m very possible,” he murmurs, his smile widening.
I grab my phone from the back of my jeans and say, “I’m calling the police.”
He shrugs. “Please do and just make sure to tell the good sheriff I was here.” He winks and leaves.