5. Neesha #2
“Oh, hello!” I say, pretending to be surprised that he’s here in his own backyard. “Fancy meeting you outside at this hour!”
He tilts his head, clearly trying to determine whether I’m insane or not. “Did I just catch you scaling my neighbor’s fence?”
“I was—uh…” I scramble to pull out a fresh st ack of printed papers from my bag. “Flyers. Delivering them. Again. Very important…flyer…business.”
“Hmm.” He raises a brow like he’s not buying it. “Interesting delivery method. No mailboxes back here, though. So you climbed a fence—for what, exactly?”
“Exercise?” I say uncertainly, because apparently my brain can’t make up a better excuse.
An amused grin curves his lips. “Seems like the gym would be easier. And less likely to result in a concussion.”
“Well, some of us prefer creative fitness challenges.” Did I really just pretend to be into “creative fitness challenges”?
He rubs his mouth like he’s trying to hide a laugh. “Good to know. In case I need a teammate for ninja training in neighborhood backyards.”
“Oh, um, I’m actually more of a solo fence climber,” I say seriously. “I don’t really do team sports. Or teams in general. Or sports, if I’m being honest.” Stop. Talking. Now.
I stand there pretending to be amazed by the boxwood bushes because I can’t exactly walk the twenty feet to my door without revealing where I live. So I’m stuck staring at his landscape until he goes inside.
“Are you warm? Want to come in for a drink?” he asks, pointing to the house. “You know—while you recover from your extreme sports adventure?”
I should say no. Everything in me is telling me to decline. Maybe it’s the fact he doesn’t like nosy neighbors. Or the trauma my mom went through. Maybe it’s the fact that Nate was always telling me what to do—and he never was looking out for what I actually needed.
He stares at me a few seconds longer. “I promise you can leave whenever you want. No pressure. We can even drink the coffee on the back patio if you want.” He must sense my internal conflict.
“Just for five minutes,” I say. “Then I really need to go.”
Inside, his place is shockingly spotless—unlike any bachelor home I’ve ever seen.
The house smells like citrus cleaner with a hint of fresh paint.
Gone is whatever hideous wallpaper that was here before; every room is painted in a sleek charcoal gray, making the space feel more modern.
I follow him through a hallway to the kitchen where there’s fresh fruit arranged in a bowl like from a painting, and a flower arrangement from the farmers’ market on the table.
This man is either an HGTV addict in disguise or incredibly detailed.
“This place looks amazing,” I say, trying not to sound too impressed. Most guys I know think Febreze counts as deep cleaning.
“Emmy said I could paint when I moved in, so I got started right away.” He opens the fridge and rests his forearm on the door. “I’ve got apple cider that the welcome committee brought as a gift, or there’s coffee, if you can handle someone else making it.”
“I guess we’ll see if you’re as good at making coffee as you are at fixing espresso machines.”
One corner of his mouth curves up. “Well, I think I can manage something better than automotive lubricant, no matter what Brittany says. Decaf okay?”
“You mean coffee’s disappointing cousin?” I ask with a smirk. “The one that shows up to family gatherings but doesn’t actually contribute anything? Sure, I probably don’t need to be wired all night.”
“The coffee that’s given up on life it is,” he deadpans.
As he works, I wander from one room to the next.
The kitchen opens up into the dining room and flows right into the living room.
The living room is gorgeous—clean lines, soft neutral tones, and not a single throw pillow out of place.
No photos, no clutter, no signs of ex-girlfriends or any evidence that he has a secret life in the mafia.
“Trying to figure out my deep, dark secrets?” he asks, catching me mid-snoop when he returns to the living room .
“Absolutely. This is my window of opportunity before you realize I’m not nearly as cool as fence climbing makes me seem.”
“Too late,” he says. “You scaled a fence like a ninja. I’m impressed.”
I spot a hockey puck on the end table and pick it up. “What’s this?”
“My lucky puck. Caught it at a game when I was a kid. Thing flew over the plexiglass and nearly took my eye out.”
“Oh, wow. Glad you have both eyes.”
“So now that you know about my brush with death, I want to find out about you. Do you live with anyone? Family or friends?”
I shake my head. “I used to live with my mom, but she passed away unexpectedly last year. My dad left when I was young. Decided he didn’t want the responsibility of a family.” I shrug, trying to keep it casual. “Now it’s just me and Henry Cavill.”
“I’m sorry about your mom,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and watching me.
“Yeah, I miss her every day. But I still carry a piece of her with me.” Without thinking, I finger the charm bracelet I wear constantly. Lucian’s eyes drop to my wrist.
“Did she give that to you?”
My gaze flicks to the bracelet as I spin it around my wrist, the single tiny charm on it catching the light.
“Yeah, it’s a forever bracelet—no clasp, so you can’t take it off.
She gave it to me on my last birthday.” I hold up the first charm.
“A cupcake because I love to bake. She was going to get me one for each birthday except she died from a surgical complication.” I pause.
“I’m so sorry, Neesha,” he says, his gaze drops back to the bracelet, like he’s studying it.
The coffee maker beeps that it’s finished and I’m grateful for the interruption. I don’t want to talk about my mom’s unexpected passing with a stranger. At the same time, I get the feeling he’s the type of man who would listen .
He opens the cabinet and hands me a mug. “Cream? Sugar? Any kind of special syrup? I just got pumpkin spice.”
“You have fancy syrup?”
“Oh, I have all the syrups,” he says, opening another cupboard and showing off an impressive display of flavors.
“What…are you secretly a barista?”
“Not when there’s already an amazing barista in town.” He shoots me a look. “So what will it be tonight? I noticed the other day that you prefer caramel.” He slides the bottle toward me, but keeps space between us.
He noticed what I liked?
“So, why do you come to the cafe if you can make coffee like this at home?” I ask.
“Because I don’t like making coffee just for myself,” he explains. “But making it for someone else? That’s different.”
I stir in the syrup, then take a sip. “Okay, this is legitimately amazing. I take back every doubt I had about your coffee skills. What other hidden talents are you hiding? Secret baking abilities?”
“My food skills are pretty much limited to waffles and takeout,” he says with a laugh. “Maybe you could give me some lessons sometime?”
I lean against the counter, feeling more relaxed now that I’ve seen inside his home.
He doesn’t look like someone I need to keep my distance from.
His home is clean, with everything in its place.
“My mom taught me the basics before she passed. It became second nature—therapeutic, almost. I’m not sure I could teach it because I don’t even think about what I’m doing anymore. ”
“I get that,” he says, stirring cream into his coffee. “People ask me how I know how to fix things. I can’t really explain it—I just like figuring out the way to put broken things back together again.”
His eyes catch mine before he looks away. I sip my coffee and study the art on his walls. It’s original paintings of outdoor scenes. A mix of oils and watercolors.
“Are you going to the Ice Breakers Inaugural Bash?” he asks casually.
I set my cup down. “No. Too busy, also…I don’t really do parties involving hockey players.”
There’s a question in his gaze, but he doesn’t push. “I hear most of the town will be there.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly why I want to avoid it. Plus, I’ve got about ten dozen cupcakes to bake this week. In fact, I was heading home to bake now.”
“Seems like that’s all you do.”
“Maybe frosting is my idea of fun,” I quip, heading toward the door. “I’m a simple woman with simple pleasures.”
He follows me, hands in his pockets. “Well, if you ever want another cup of coffee, you know where to find me.” He pauses, like he’s waiting for me to offer some information in return—any hint that I’m interested in more of whatever this is.
I turn toward the door. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Part of me feels a little bad. He knows basically no one in this town and he’s probably lonely. Lonely men usually spell trouble, but for some reason, Lucian doesn’t give off those vibes. He’s different. Patient in a way I’m not used to.
He grabs the door before I can. “Good luck with the cupcakes.” He looks like he wants to ask me something else, but doesn’t.
And I don’t give him any hope that this will become something regular, because that would mean getting to know the stranger next door.
And I already know how that story ends: When strangers become friends, that’s when things get complicated.