3. Rose
ROSE
Imade a fresh cup of tea—lavender, chamomile, and lemon balm—to settle my nerves.
It helped some, but not much. Nothing short of a miracle would help with all the noise coming from next door.
The tea did help with the knot in my stomach that had been there since my conversation with my charming neighbor, though.
This isn’t a library, lady. Go be the quiet police librarian somewhere else.
I frowned as I dunked the tea bag one more time before tossing it in the trash.
The nerve of that guy. I’d been polite. I’d been reasonable. I’d even waited an entire day before going over there to complain about his loud music, and he’d looked at me like I’d asked him to stop breathing.
I carried my mug to the desk, set it down beside my laptop, and pulled my earbuds from my bag.
If he wasn’t going to turn the music down, I’d drown him out myself.
I scrolled through my phone until I found my writing playlist—the one I’d created years ago with ambient tracks and soft piano that usually put me in the right headspace.
I pressed play, adjusted the volume, and opened my laptop.
The manuscript stared back at me. Chapter Three.
The same place I’d been stuck for two weeks.
I stared at the cursor, watching it blink.
My mind went blank. I shifted my gaze to look out the window at the ocean.
It was doing its best to be inspiring. The morning light hit the water in a way that made it shimmer, and the beach looked empty—from this angle, at least. There was no better place to write a romance story than from right here at this desk in this house with this view.
I could do this.
All I needed was to focus.
My fingers hovered over the keys. I set the scene in my head first, then started typing.
One sentence, then another. My heroine was at a farmer’s market.
The hero was supposed to bump into her there—literally.
The kind of clumsy collision that sends her bags scattering and him scrambling to help pick everything up.
Their hands brush when they both reach for the same thing.
It was supposed to be a small moment, but it was the one that plants the seed.
The first hint that this man might be different from the ones who came before him.
I got three more sentences in before a lawn mower roared to life outside.
My hands froze on the keys.
No.
I shifted to look out the window into the yard.
Sure enough, there he was—my new neighbor, the one who apparently had zero concept of shared living space—pushing a mower across the narrow strip of yard between the duplex and the beach.
He had headphones on. Of course he did. Headphones for himself while he subjected everyone else to the noise he created.
The mower growled and sputtered as he made a pass along the edge of the property. I turned my volume up, hoping to drown it out. It didn’t help. The low, grinding drone of the engine while it chomped through grass still found its way through.
I closed my eyes and squeezed the bridge of my nose while taking in a breath. Then, I reached for my tea and took a sip before shifting my focus back to my story. I tried to write. I really did. My fingers tapped out words that didn’t connect and sentences that went nowhere.
He handed her the sourdough loaf and she—
The mower hit something and made a horrible scraping sound.
—she took it from him and smiled, though she wasn’t sure—
The mower engine revved louder as he turned a corner.
—why her chest fluttered the way it did—
I deleted the line. Then the one before it. Then the whole freaking paragraph and sat back in my chair. I plucked my earbuds out and set them on the desk, then snapped my laptop shut.
There was no point in even trying to write right now. Not with all that noise. It felt like I was forcing words onto the page while my brain was being jackhammered. I wasn’t going to produce anything worth keeping in this environment.
What should I do now?
Explore the town?
The listing had called Driftwood Cove charming, and from what I’d seen driving in yesterday, that wasn’t a lie.
Maybe walking through a cute coastal town would shake my brain loose and get my muse so primed my neighbor could set off dynamite next door and I’d still be so into the story I wouldn’t even hear.
When was the last time I’d been that into a story I was writing?
It had been so long I couldn’t even remember.
I grabbed my purse and headed out. The walk into town was just what the listing had promised—short, flat, and easy.
Main Street was only a few blocks from the duplex, and the morning air was warm with a breeze coming off the water that smelled salty.
I passed the little shop with the sea glass wind chimes I’d seen yesterday, and a few storefronts that looked like they’d been here longer than most of the people in town.
Then I spotted the café.
Delilah’s Café was on Main Street with a chalkboard sign out front advertising the day’s pie—blueberry—and the best clam chowder on the coast. The door was propped open, and the smell of fresh coffee and something savory drifted out onto the sidewalk, luring me in.
I stepped inside.
The café was cozy. A counter ran along one side with stools, and a few tables and a booth or two lined the other wall.
It wasn’t busy either. There were a couple of older men at the counter nursing their morning coffee, a woman reading a paperback in the corner booth with a muffin, and a couple sitting at a center table with breakfast platters.
A woman behind the counter looked up the moment I walked in. She was short and curvy, probably in her mid-forties, with red hair streaked with silver and chunky bracelets that clinked together when she moved. She flashed me a warm, friendly smile.
“Well, good morning,” she said. “Have a seat wherever you like, honey. I’ll be right with you.”
“Thank you.” I slid onto a stool at the counter. Sitting at a table alone seemed embarrassing.
The woman made her way to me from the other side of the counter. “What can I get you, honey? Coffee?”
“Actually, do you have hot tea?”
“I do. What kind? I’ve got chamomile, Earl Grey, and a mint blend that’ll change your life.”
“Earl Grey would be great. Thanks.”
“No problem. Anything else? We’ve got fresh blueberry muffins this morning.”
“That sounds delicious. I’ll take one.”
She was already reaching for one before I finished answering. After setting it in front of me, she went to fix my tea. It didn’t take her long, and then she was back.
“I’m Delilah, by the way. This is my place.”
“Hi. I’m Rose.”
“Rose.” She repeated my name like she was filing it away for future use. “You new in town, or just passing through?”
I peeled the paper away from the bottom of my muffin. “Actually, I’m only here for a little while. I rented a place near the beach.”
Delilah’s eyebrows lifted, and a gleam of something entered her eyes. “Near the beach. Wouldn’t happen to be Alister’s duplex, would it?”
My muffin stopped halfway to my mouth. “How did you know?”
“Small town, honey.” She waved my words away with a grin. “Word travels fast here, especially when it involves Nolan Bridges getting a surprise neighbor.” She wiggled her brows.
So that was his name—Nolan.
“He didn’t seem exactly thrilled about it,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.
“I imagine not. That man likes his space the way he likes his music.” She leaned on the counter. “Loud.”
A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. “That’s an accurate description of it.”
“So what brings you to Driftwood Cove, Rose? Vacation? Family?” Delilah asked, but there was something about her expression and tone that had me feeling as though she already knew what I was about to say before I said it.
“Work, actually. I’m a writer. I needed somewhere quiet to finish a project.” The irony of that last part wasn’t lost on me.
“The romance writer,” Delilah said, that gleam back in her eyes. “Honey, I’ve been waiting for you to walk through that door since Alister told me he was renting to one.”
My muffin stopped halfway to my mouth for the second time. “Does everyone in this town already know who I am?”
“Just the important people.” She winked. “You’ve come to the right place, though. Trust me on that.”
She said it like she knew something I didn’t, but I wasn’t about to ask.
I smiled politely and took a bite of my muffin.
Before the conversation could continue, she was called away to a table.
For a few minutes, I let myself just sit there, eating my muffin and sipping my tea without thinking about the blank page waiting for me at the rental.
When I was finished, I said goodbye to Delilah and headed back to the duplex.
The walk back took about ten minutes. The first thing I noticed was the quiet.
There was no mower chomping through the yard anymore, and no music thumping through the afternoon air.
The second thing I noticed was that Nolan’s truck was gone.
Relief washed through me.
I stepped inside and headed straight for my laptop on the desk. I cracked the window and let the sound of the ocean waves rolling to the shore fill the room. My gaze shifted to my laptop. I opened it and stared at the screen.
It was time to get some words out.
Opening my document, I scrolled to where I’d left off and started typing.
The words came, but they felt wrong. My heroine looked up at the stranger who’d just knocked her bags everywhere.
He was supposed to be handsome in a way that caught her off guard.
She was supposed to feel something shift—that flutter, that warmth, that first quiet hint that this man wasn’t like the others before him—the words fell flat.
They read like stage directions. She felt happy.
She felt seen. It all sounded so hollow. There was no emotion to it, no pulse.
I tried adding in the hero saying something sweet but understated. The kind of line that makes a reader’s chest ache, and they highlight or screenshot to share it on social media. What came out sounded as generic as a ninety-nine-cent greeting card.
The problem wasn’t the scene. It wasn’t the dialogue, the setting, or the plot.
The problem was me.
Everything I tried to write ran headfirst into the same wall—my own recent experience.
The last man who’d paid attention to the small things had used them against me.
Evan remembered everything, but not because he cared.
He remembered it all because information was currency to him.
Knowing what I liked, what I feared, and what made me flinch had given him control.
That was the version of love I knew.
The one that lived in my bones and bled into every sentence I tried to type.
How was I supposed to write a scene where a stranger’s touch feels electric instead of threatening? How was I supposed to make a reader believe that being seen by someone could be a gift instead of a weapon?
My throat tightened, and I closed my laptop. I glanced out the window to the ocean. I sat there for a long time, not writing, not thinking, just watching the water and trying not to feel as stuck as I was on more levels than one.