Chapter 2 – Devin
I've renovated three houses and built one from scratch, but somehow Eleanor Turner's cottage feels like the biggest project of my life. Maybe because it's not just walls and floors I'm trying to fix.
Early sunlight streams through the living room windows, catching dust motes that dance in the air as I pry open another box.
The cottage smells like cedar and furniture polish and faintly of the lavender sachets my grandmother tucked into every drawer.
I've been up since dawn, sorting through years of memories and making mental renovation lists.
But if I'm honest, I'm distracted as hell.
I keep replaying yesterday's encounter with the woman across the street. Nora Bell with her wide eyes and quick smile. The way she looked both embarrassed and determined chasing her cat. How she held my gaze just long enough to make my pulse kick before glancing away.
I set aside a stack of my grandmother's cookbooks, pausing when I find the one with handwritten notes in the margins. My throat tightens.
Through the open window, I catch a glimpse of Nora's house—a small craftsman with deep blue trim and window boxes spilling over with flowers. Her porch swing sways slightly in the breeze, though I don't see her outside yet. Maybe she's still sleeping.
Or maybe I should stop wondering about the daily habits of a woman I just met.
I'm not usually like this.
My phone buzzes on the counter. My agent, probably with another "opportunity" I'm not interested in. I ignore it and move to the window, stretching my shoulders.
As I turn back to my boxes, something small and bright catches my eye in the grass near the driveway. I step outside, bending to pick it up.
A tiny blue collar with a bell, probably meant for a cat.
I turn it over in my palm, a smile tugging at my mouth. Pudding's, maybe? I didn't notice him wearing one yesterday, but it could have slipped off during his mad dash across the street.
Before I can overthink it, I pocket the collar and head for the shower. Just being neighborly, I tell myself. That's all.
Twenty minutes later, I'm crossing the street, freshly showered and wondering if this is too obvious. Too eager. But I've never been a man who hesitates once I've made up my mind, and my mind is very interested in seeing Nora Bell again.
Her house looks even more charming up close. Pumpkins flanking the steps, a wreath of golden maple leaves on the front door. The curtains in the front window are drawn back, and I catch a glimpse of movement inside. She's home.
I take the porch steps two at a time and knock before I can change my mind.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then I hear a thump, a muffled "Crap!", and hurried footsteps. The door swings open, and there she is—hair piled messily on top of her head, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, eyes wide with surprise.
"Devin!" She blinks rapidly. "Hi! I mean, good morning. Is everything okay?"
She looks soft and rumpled in a way that makes my chest feel tight. There's a smudge of something on her cheek, and her socked feet peek out from beneath flannel pajama pants covered in cartoon cats.
"Morning." I can't help the grin spreading across my face. "Sorry to interrupt. I found this in my yard and thought it might be Pudding's." I hold up the tiny collar.
Her brow furrows. "Oh no, Pudding's collar is orange."
Smooth move, Turner. My excuse to see her crumbles, but before I can feel too ridiculous, Nora's expression shifts to something knowing and amused.
"But thanks for bringing it by," she adds, a hint of pink touching her cheeks. "Do you want to come in? I've got coffee. Or cider, if you prefer something more seasonal."
"Coffee would be great," I say, relief washing through me as she steps back to let me in.
Her house is exactly what I'd expect from someone who works in a bookstore.. Books are stacked on every surface, mingled with candles and ceramic mugs. A large desk by the window holds a laptop, the screen showing a document with far more words than I wrote in all my college papers combined.
"Sorry about the mess," she says, leading me toward the kitchen. "I wasn't expecting company."
"It's not a mess. It's lived-in." I follow her, noticing how the morning light catches copper highlights in her blonde hair. "My place is all boxes and dust right now. This is paradise by comparison."
Pudding is curled on the windowsill, soaking up the sun. He opens one eye as we enter, gives me what I swear is a knowing look, then resumes his nap.
"Your cat's judging me," I comment as Nora moves to the coffee maker.
She glances at Pudding and snorts. "He judges everyone. It's his spiritual practice." She pulls two mugs from a cabinet, one says I like big books and I cannot lie and the other features what looks like a grumpy wizard. "How do you take your coffee?"
"Black is fine." I lean against her counter, watching her move with comfortable familiarity in her space. "So, what were you working on when I interrupted? Looked intense."
She freezes for a millisecond before resuming her coffee preparation. "Oh, just... writing. It's what I do. Besides the bookstore, I mean."
"You're a writer?" Interest prickles through me. "What do you write?"
The coffee maker gurgles as she fiddles with the mugs, not quite meeting my eyes. "Fiction, mostly. Novels."
"What kind of novels?" I press, enjoying the way her cheeks grow pinker.
She hands me the wizard mug, finally meeting my gaze with a mix of defiance and embarrassment. "Romance. I write romance novels."
"No kidding." I take a sip of coffee. "Published?"
"Five books so far." Her chin lifts slightly. "Under the name Eleanor Nightingale."
The name doesn't ring any bells, but I haven't exactly been keeping up with the romance genre. "That's impressive. Five books is no joke."
Some of the tension leaves her shoulders. "Most people think romance is frivolous. Not real writing."
"Most people are idiots," I counter, earning a surprised laugh from her. "Creating anything is hard work. Besides, what's more important than love stories?"
She studies me for a moment, like she's trying to figure out if I'm messing with her. "That's... not the reaction I usually get from men."
"I'm not most men." The words come out more intense than I intended.
Nora clears her throat. "So, how's the unpacking going? Eleanor's place was always so cozy."
I accept the subject change, following her to the breakfast nook where we sit across from each other. The sun spills across the table between us, warming the wood.
"Slow but steady." I cradle the mug between my hands.
"You were close to her." It's not a question.
"Yeah. She was..." I search for the right words. "She was the one person who never wanted anything from me. Just wanted me to be happy."
Nora nods, understanding in her eyes. "She bragged about you constantly."
The thought makes my chest ache with something between grief and gratitude. "She called me after every game. Win or lose."
"When did you decide to move back?" Nora asks, her voice gentle.
I stare into my coffee, considering how to answer. The truth is complicated—involves a busted knee, painkillers that became too necessary, and the hollowness of fame once the game was gone.
"After an injury, I needed a fresh start," I say finally. "Somewhere that felt real. Denver was great during my playing days, but afterward..." I shrug. "It started to feel like I was playing a part in someone else's story."
"And Whitetail Falls is your story?"
Her question hits closer to home than she could know. "It used to be. I'm trying to figure out if it still can be."
Nora's expression softens. "For what it's worth, I think Whitetail Falls has a way of making room for people to find themselves. It's small, but it breathes."
"You've lived here your whole life?"
She nods. "Born and raised. I went to college in Burlington, but came right back. Some people think that makes me boring or unambitious, but..." She gestures around her. "This is where my stories live."
"I don't think you're boring at all," I say, meaning it.
Her smile is quick and genuine. "Well, you just met me. Give it time."
"I'm counting on it." The words slip out before I can filter them, and her eyes widen slightly.
When Nora gets up to refill our coffee, I notice her laptop still open on the desk. "So what kind of romance do you write? Sweet and steamy, or just sweet?"
She nearly drops the coffee pot. "Um. Both? I mean, there are... elements of both."
The blush spreading down her neck makes me wonder exactly how steamy those elements get.
"I'll have to check them out," I say, enjoying how flustered she looks.
"Please don't." She returns with my refilled mug. "I'd die of mortification knowing you were reading them."
"Now I'm definitely reading them."
She groans, covering her face with her hand. "You're terrible."
"Just curious." I take the mug from her, our fingers brushing. The brief contact sends a ridiculous jolt through me, and from her sharp intake of breath, I suspect she felt it too. "About what kind of stories you tell."
For a heartbeat, we're just looking at each other, something unspoken crackling in the air between us. She smells like vanilla, and it's intoxicating.
"What about you?" she asks, breaking the moment as she settles back in her chair. "What are your weekend plans? Besides unpacking and traumatizing your new neighbor."
I laugh. "Actually, I volunteered to help set up the Fire Department's Haunted House." A thought occurs to me, impulsive but irresistible. "You should come."
Nora blinks. "To... build a haunted house?"
"Why not? It's for a good cause. All the proceeds go to the children's hospital." I lean forward slightly. "Unless you're afraid of plastic skeletons and strobe lights?"
"I'm not afraid," she protests, though her expression suggests otherwise. "I'm just not particularly... Halloween-oriented."
"You have a wreath made of tiny pumpkins on your front door."
"That's fall decor, not Halloween. There's a difference."
I can't help grinning at her indignation. "Come on. I'll protect you from the fake ghosts."
She studies me, lips pursed. "I'm really not good with haunted houses. I screamed so loud at the one in college that they asked me to leave because I was scaring the other customers."
The image makes me laugh. "Even better. Your fear will inspire authenticity in our design."
"You're not selling this very well," she points out, but I can see her resolve weakening.
"How about this, come help for an hour. If you hate it, I'll buy you a cider at The Copper Kettle afterward as an apology."
Her eyes narrow. "With one of those cinnamon-sugar donuts?"
"Two donuts."
"And you won't let the Chief make me test the 'Tunnel of Terror'?"
"Scout's honor." I hold up my hand in what I hope is the Scout salute. I was never actually a Scout.
Nora doesn't look convinced by my gesture, but after a moment she sighs. "Fine. One hour. But I'm holding you to the donuts."
Victory feels surprisingly sweet. "I'll pick you up at three."