Forever Yours

Chapter 1

Cami

Me: Pretty sure it’s HIM.

I inch forward in line, eyes glued to my phone, heart kicking as Paxton’s reply pops in.

Paxton: Wait. Not that neighbor guy you flashed the other night.

Paxton: Lady bits and all?

Okay, first of all—I didn’t flash anyone. Not on purpose.

Sure, I may have been towel-deficient when that neighbor guy—who felt solid in ways that made my pulse misbehave—literally slammed into me outside Ms. Palmer’s house. But still. Accidental nudity should not count.

Second of all, Paxton is the one who warned me that Ms. Palmer’s head would flat-out explode if I dragged even a single grain of sand into her pristine beach house.

Which is the only reason I stepped into that outdoor shower—sans swimsuit—and ended up wet, naked, and, as my dumb luck would have it, nose-to-pectoral with the hottest man I’ve ever seen.

Ugh. This summer is supposed to be low-key. House-sit for three months. Wake up to ocean views. Maybe heal from the shit storm I left behind in England. My summer reset.

Instead—moonlight, an outdoor shower, and a mortifying full-frontal introduction to the neighbor next door. Definitely not on my itinerary.

Me: YES. He just walked into the coffee shop and is standing behind me in line right now.

Paxton: Hahahahaha!

Of course he finds this hilarious.

Honestly, I should’ve gone straight to New York from England like a sane person.

But nooooo. I had to be a helpful bestie and swoop in to house-sit for Paxton after he got summoned early to his fancy Wall Street internship.

Not that I was in any rush. I wasn’t exactly ready to face New York—then or now.

Me: Not. Funny. Besides, maybe he won’t remember?

Ignoring the inner voice begging me to skip my morning brew and bolt out of Seaport Coffee Café like a bullet train, I shuffle forward.

A bright blue sign above the register flashes: “Skip the line. Download our app. Order ahead.”

Perfect. An app that could’ve saved me from standing in front of the guy who got an unsolicited peek at my lady bits.

A ping interrupts my mental spiral.

Paxton: Not sure why he wouldn’t remember a naked woman running into him. But maybe it’s not such a big deal…

Me: Not such a big deal for a total stranger to see me NAKED? Um, wrong.

Paxton: Girl. You’re HOT. That neighbor guy got lucky, if you ask me.

Me. Well, maybe he won’t recognize me. It was dark (thank you moon, stars, and divine mercy), plus I kinda zipped inside Ms. Palmer’s house like a comet.

Paxton: Or…maybe he’ll only recognize like 90% of you. Still a win.

Paxton: For him.

Me: I’m accepting applications for a new best friend…

Paxton: Anyway, this could very well be the universe reminding you that you’re more than how that jackass ex made you feel. It’s simple math: Hot girl + naked run-in – dignity = future wedding toast material.

Me: You’re the absolute worst.

Paxton: Actually, I’m the best. And trust me, this’ll all blow over soon, girlie.

I really hope he’s right.

Me: I’m up next in line. Phone’s dying (shocker). Text you later.

After placing my order, I drift to the pickup area and nestle among other customers, catching the tail end of a middle-aged couple debating oat milk versus almond.

The aroma of espresso clings to the air while upbeat music pulses through the café, syncing perfectly with Seaport Coffee Café’s breezy, beach-town vibe.

Locals sprawl inside and out—some in swimsuits, others in sun-faded shorts—chatting over cold brew, zoning out behind laptops, or simply soaking in the salty breeze like it’s part of the menu.

It reminds me of a little café near Oxford, where we’d cram in a corner booth that always smelled like cinnamon rolls and wet umbrellas. Tavia would quiz me on theory while Liam played breakup songs on repeat, claiming it helped him focus.

That flicker of familiarity warms me.

I miss that version of England, those people, those nights filled with laughter and caffeine-fueled panic.

But Tavia and Liam were my ex’s friends before they were mine.

So when I left the chaos, I left them, too.

My therapist said I don’t need to rewrite the past—just edit my future and sprinkle in happiness like powdered sugar on pancakes.

Some days I believe her.

The scrape of a chair pulls me back to now.

Neighbor Guy places his order, and when he steps up beside me—confident strides, casual swagger—I steal a better glance.

Sweet hell.

Skyscraper-tall in worn denim. A silk tee stretched tight across muscles he couldn’t hide even if he tried.

Jet-black, just-rolled-out-of-bed hair.

A jaw that could cut glass.

Gunmetal eyes rimmed in lashes influencers would start a tutorial war over.

If our first encounter hadn’t involved full-frontal nudity, I might’ve offered a flirtatious smile, assuming he’s not taken, or worse, one of those charming, self-absorbed types. The type I’m apparently cursed to attract.

But…none of that matters anyway.

I’m on a strict, self-imposed relationship detox. Men are beautiful disasters wrapped in cologne and contradiction. Trust me, I know. My ex was a five-alarm emotional inferno I barely escaped.

Now, over a year later, even though my heart’s mostly stitched back together, there are still days when it feels like pieces of me are scattered in places I don’t want to revisit.

Which is exactly why I’m keeping every last piece to myself.

This summer is meant to be a breather. Just sun, silence, and space to reset. One last exhale before I dive headfirst into the real world, into a “big girl” job in New York with long hours, big expectations, and the next version of me. Whatever that is.

Neighbor Guy and I lock eyes for half a second—and ohmygosh, wait. Did he just smirk?

A crooked, all-knowing smirk?

Yep. He definitely knows I’m the one who introduced myself boobs-first.

Fabulous.

Ticket for one to Saturn, please. Or anywhere people haven’t seen my bare ass in the moonlight.

As I rip my gaze away, a pink-haired barista calls, “Order for Cami!”

“Oh, thank God,” I mutter, snatching my drink and darting toward the exit, bells clanging traitorously as I shove the door open.

Ms. Palmer’s beach house is only a few blocks away. I’ll simply sprint back there, shelter in place for the next…I don’t know…one hundred eighty-something days?

“Excuse me,” a gruff timbre from behind calls out, stopping me in my tracks.

I spin around, swallowing hard when my eyes land on Neighbor Guy. “Um…yes?”

“I think you might—”

“Be the woman you rudely slammed into the other night?” I interject with a huff.

“For your information, streaking isn’t my thing, but there was sand—lots of it—and then I realized I’d forgotten my towel, but no biggie; the house next door seemed empty—which it obviously wasn’t since, bam, you rammed right into me during my mad dash—and now, I’d like to go into hiding, thank you very much, because, hello, super embarrassing. ”

Head tilted, Neighbor Guy examines me for a beat, no doubt mentally digesting the spiraling word buffet I spewed cold and fast.

My heart thumps against my chest as he steps closer, narrowing the safe gap between us.

“Actually,” he explains, “I think you might’ve forgotten this.”

Dangling from his hand is a white pastry bag, the name Cami written in bold black.

Ugh. I forgot my stupid bagel.

Because apparently, not only am I the girl who runs around naked at night, I’m also the girl who flees coffee shops like it’s her rom-com debut.

“Um…thank you?” I say—or ask?—like it’s a question, taking the bag as he hands it over. “So kind of you.”

Unsure of what to say next, I nod and turn on my flip-flops, resuming the three-block jolt back to Ms. Palmer’s house, flight mode fully engaged.

Why couldn’t I have said something cool or clever? Oh, that’s right. Witty me got chipped away by the asshat ex who eroded my spark with needling digs I pretended not to hear.

Neighbor Guy’s gruff tone halts me yet again. “I didn’t slam into you, by the way.”

Brows raised, I pivot to face him. “Really? ‘Cause my dignity and I remember it a lot differently.”

Only…the second our eyes meet, my confidence wobbles.

Maybe this Adonis isn’t my neighbor after all? Fuck my life. Now this moment is about a thousand times more embarrassing.

He clears his throat. “You slammed into me.”

And just like that, I’m somehow even more mortified than before. Which, frankly, should have been impossible.

Still, beneath the flush of total embarrassment, a smile sneaks up as I walk away. Something tells me this won’t be the last time I talk to him. Or snap at him. Or find his biceps offensively attractive.