Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Knox
“Who the hell blasts Whitney Houston at full volume at nine-thirty on a Saturday morning?”
I fling my phone onto the bed and throw an arm over my eyes, hoping darkness will drown out the chaos outside. Saturdays are sacred. My one day of peace. No football practice, no high school drama, no parents emailing me about forgotten cleats or why their kid isn’t getting more playing time.
Just me, a couch, Priscilla, and possibly waffles.
But now? Now there's...this.
Then the singing starts, if you can even call it that. It’s more like a squirrel choking on helium. Desperate, off-key, and painful. I wince as whoever’s out there takes a stab at the big note in “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” She doesn’t stick the landing. Not even close.
Sophie mentioned a new tenant moved in last weekend. I didn’t ask questions. As long as rent shows up on time and no one sets the place on fire, I don’t care.
But this is pushing it.
Somewhere outside, a moving truck door slams shut, the metallic clang slicing through the chorus.
I roll onto my side and grab the extra pillow beside me, pressing it hard over my head like a man bracing for a hurricane made of terrible karaoke and pounding bass.
It’s useless. The pillow might as well be made of tissue paper.
The movers are gone now, but the singing gets louder. Like she’s performing for her houseplants and they demanded an encore. I groan and throw the pillow aside, staring up at the ceiling.
I don’t know who this woman is, but she’s already ruining my life.
Britney Spears starts next.
That’s it. Game over.
I throw back the covers and plant my feet on the floor. “Nope. Not doing this.”
Still half-asleep and entirely annoyed, I pull on the first T-shirt and pair of sleep pants I find. No shoes. No plan. Just pure, caffeine-deprived rage. Priscilla trots after me like she’s looking forward to the confrontation. Glad one of us is.
The cold sting of the driveway under my bare feet only makes my mood worse.
I march across the short stretch of concrete and knock on the door. No answer. I knock again—louder this time. Priscilla huffs beside me like she’s just as done. The music cuts mid-chorus. A second later, I hear the click of the lock.
Then the door swings open.
“Knox? What the hell are you doing here?”
Brynn.
Of course it’s her.
Because God forbid I go three days without running into my ex. Small town, sure, but apparently not small enough to give me a damn heads-up that she’d be hanging out next door.
She stands there blinking at me, blonde hair twisted up, pink leggings hugging her curves, and a cropped white T-shirt that would’ve broken the dress code in high school. Her cheeks are flushed. Her mouth is parted like I’m the one disrupting her peaceful morning.
Just like that, my headache triples.
“I’m here to ask my new tenant to keep their music at a reasonable volume,” I say, scanning the room behind her. “Are they home?”
Her eyes drop to Priscilla and light up like it’s Christmas. “Who is this? Oh, you’re so cute!”
Priscilla immediately betrays me, licking Brynn’s hand like she’s met her soulmate.
“This is Priscilla,” I grit out. “Now, as I was saying—the tenant?”
“I am the tenant.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
She crosses her arms. “Wait, what do you mean your tenant?”
“I own these duplexes, Brynn.”
She stares. “My lease says Goodton Properties.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “That’s me. Goodton’s my LLC.”
She squints. “Wait...Goodton?” I see the wheels turning. “Mr. Goodbar. Dalton. Goodton?”
Her eyes go wide. And then she snorts. Not laughs. Snorts. “You named your LLC after a candy bar?”
I level her with a deadpan look. “It’s a strong brand. And a damn good candy bar.”
She murmurs, lips twitching, “You really are the same Knox Dalton.”
“And you’re clearly the same Brynn Marlow. Now with better speakers and a vendetta against peace and quiet.”
She steps back, revealing stacks of neatly labeled boxes—classic Brynn. “So you’re the mystery landlord that lives next door. Sophie mentioned it, but never said your name.”
“Yep, that’s me. Unless you want out. I’ll let you break the lease. No penalty.”
She tilts her head, that familiar spark in her eye. “Not moving.”
“There are other options.”
“Not taking them.”
“Brynn,” I say, too sharp, too familiar. Her name feels like it never left my mouth. “You and I both know this is a bad idea.”
“I like it here.” She shrugs. “Natural light, it doesn’t smell like pickles, and it’s not my parents’ house. That’s three wins.”
I blink. “Pickles?”
She ignores me, breezing toward her kitchen boxes. “I’m not moving.”
I follow her in—mostly to make sure she doesn’t crank the volume again just to spite me. “We can’t be neighbors.”
“We can if you stop hovering.”
“That’s not how this works. You can’t blast Britney before brunch and act like it’s normal.”
She turns, hands on hips. “It’s technically too early for brunch.”
“I was trying to sleep.”
“Well, I was trying to unpack. Sorry my playlist didn’t fit your sad, beige-man energy.”
“The Holy Trinity of Post-Breakup Pop before noon should be illegal.”
“This isn’t about a man, Knox.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
She exhales slowly. “It’s not about a guy. It’s about space. Independence. A fresh start. Which I had—until you showed up like some sleep-deprived HOA enforcer in threadbare pajama pants.”
I glance down. “They’re vintage.”
“They’re tragic.”
“They’re comfortable.”
She lets out a laugh and folds her arms. “Look, I didn’t know this place was yours. But I signed the lease. I’m unpacking. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I could still kick you out.”
“You won’t.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Her voice softens, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “Yeah. Because you’re not that guy.”
I stare at her for a long beat. The silence stretches between us, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. Finally, I turn toward the door.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if I hear ‘Toxic’ before I’ve had coffee, I’m calling the cops.”
Her laugh follows me onto the porch. “You better not! That’s my unpacking anthem!”
The door shuts behind me. I stand there for a second, rubbing the back of my neck while Priscilla trots ahead back to our door like nothing happened.
So this is my life now. Brynn Marlow isn’t just my tenant, we share a wall. And I’m absolutely, completely screwed.