Chapter 6RILEY
CHAPTER 6
RILEY
I t’s been two weeks since that conversation with Ethan on his porch, and somehow, we’ve managed to avoid any shouting matches. For once, there’s no lawnmower at dawn, no sarcastic jabs, and no need for me to call him city boy like it’s a curse.
I’d even go so far as to say we’re getting along.
The few times we’ve bumped into each other—him leaving for a run or me unloading groceries—he’s actually been… decent. Civil. Maybe even funny. I hate to admit it, but I might’ve been wrong about him.
Not that I’m telling Aunt Dotty or Mia that.
Every time they see us exchange even a polite “hello,” they start nudging each other like we’re starring in some rom-com. Last night at dinner, Aunt Dotty actually referred to us as having a “love-hate relationship.” I nearly choked on my mashed potatoes.
“Love-hate, my foot,” I’d muttered, ignoring Mia’s knowing smirk.
It’s unsettling, really—this sudden shift in how I see him. He’s still city boy to me, but now there’s something else. Something I don’t want to name.
But today, I don’t have time to dwell on any of that. I’m in a rush, and the grocery store is packed—half the town must’ve decided to shop at the same time. I grab a basket, making a mental note to stick to the essentials: milk, bread, eggs, and whatever else Aunt Dotty added to the list this morning.
As I dart down the cereal aisle, I hear them—three girls, maybe a few years younger than me, huddled near the checkout line. Their voices are low, but their excitement is impossible to miss.
“Oh my gosh, he’s even hotter in person,” one of them says, holding up what looks like a local magazine.
“Right? Did you see this article? He’s dated, like, half of New York’s models,” another one adds, flipping a page.
I freeze, my hand hovering over a box of cereal.
“Who are you talking about?” the third girl asks, peering over their shoulders.
“Ethan Wilson,” the first girl replies, her voice dripping with admiration. “You know, the guy who moved into the old Martin place. Look!” She points to a glossy photo on the page.
Against my better judgment, I step closer, craning my neck to get a glimpse of the magazine page she’s showing off. And there he is—Ethan, looking annoyingly polished in a tailored suit, leaning casually against some sleek car.
The headline reads: Manhattan’s Most Eligible Bachelor Finds New Playground?
I blink, feeling a strange knot twist in my stomach as the girls keep talking.
“He’s been with, like, so many models,” one of them says, her voice hushed. “There’s a whole section about his exes—apparently, they’re all drop-dead gorgeous.”
“I heard he’s here to ‘take a break’ from city life,” another chimes in, making air quotes with her fingers. “Probably until the next red carpet event.”
They dissolve into giggles, and I turn away, my face burning.
I know I shouldn’t care, but something about the way they talked about him—as if he were a celebrity rather than a person—makes my stomach churn. I didn’t want to believe it, but there it was, in glossy print. Manhattan’s most eligible bachelor? What am I even doing thinking about this guy?
I grab the cereal box and toss it into my basket, my mind spinning. So, this is who Ethan really is. The charming, polished guy who dates models and ends up in tabloids.
The knot in my stomach tightens. Of course, I’d let myself think, even for a second, that he was just some overwhelmed guy trying to start fresh. But clearly, my instincts were right all along—he’s still that guy. The playboy who always gets what he wants.
By the time I get to the checkout, I’m fuming. I don’t even bother with small talk as I pay, tossing my bags into the cart and heading straight for the exit.
Outside, the cool air hits me, but it doesn’t do much to calm the storm brewing in my head.
Why does it matter? It doesn’t, I tell myself. But the way my chest tightens feels like betrayal. Not by him, but by me.
This is exactly why I don’t let myself get caught up in people like Ethan. It doesn’t matter how civil he’s been lately or how different he seemed when he talked about his family. He’s still just the guy in the tabloid—the one who’s probably laughing at the idea of “small-town life” while he waits for his next big adventure. Like we’re some pitstop on his way to better things.
I grit my teeth, gripping the cart handle tighter. Well, if he thinks I’m going to fall for his charm like everyone else in town, he’s got another thing coming.
As I drive home, the grocery bags rustling in the passenger seat, I can’t stop thinking about those girls in the store.
Why does it bother me so much?
It’s not like I’m interested in Ethan. Heck, up until two weeks ago, I couldn’t even stand to look at him without rolling my eyes. He was a city boy, the guy who blocked my driveway and mowed his lawn at the crack of dawn. So why does hearing about his playboy reputation feel like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over my head?
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, my chest tightening with something I refuse to name. It’s not like I could know everything about his life just because he moved here. People have pasts. Stories. And sure, his is apparently full of supermodels and flashy headlines, but that’s none of my business.
Still, there’s a nagging thought in the back of my mind, a little voice asking if I ever really stopped to think about who Ethan is beyond the surface. The playful banter, the smirks, the unexpectedly thoughtful moments—how much of that is real, and how much of it is just an act?
“It doesn’t matter,” I mutter aloud, shaking my head. “Getting close to him would only lead to trouble.”
By the time I pull into the driveway, I’ve made up my mind. Staying away from Ethan is the best option. If I let myself get too close, I’ll end up getting dragged into whatever mess follows him.
For the rest of the week, I stick to my plan. Whenever I see him, I find a way to dodge him.
On Monday, I spot him by the mailbox as I’m pulling into the driveway. He’s holding a letter and smiling like he’s about to wave, but I pretend I don’t see him. I grab my phone and act like I’m deep in a very important call, even though the screen is dark.
On Wednesday, I hear his voice floating over the fence while I’m in the garden. He’s talking to someone—I can’t make out the words, but the warm, easy tone of his voice makes me hesitate. For a second, I consider looking over, but I shake my head and go back to weeding .
Every time I see him, I find a reason to look busy. Sorting screws in the hardware store, fake-calling customers, or inspecting the same plant three times in the garden. It’s ridiculous, but somehow, it feels safer than looking at him and wondering what’s real.
I don’t want to like him. It’s safer to keep him at arm’s length, to remind myself he’s just a guy passing through Bardstown. But no matter how hard I try, it’s getting harder to ignore the way he looks at me—as if I’m not just some small-town girl in over her head.
By Friday, even Aunt Dotty notices my antics.
I’m unloading groceries when she steps onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron. She leans against the railing, watching me with her usual patient, knowing smile.
“Sugar,” she says, her tone light, “you’ve been acting strange lately.”
I pause, setting down a bag of apples a little too carefully. My fingers linger on the handle as I avoid her gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you do.” She gestures toward the street. “I saw you dodging Ethan the other day. The poor boy looked downright confused when you practically ran the other way.”
I shrug, keeping my voice even. “I’m just busy, that’s all.”
Aunt Dotty hums, unconvinced. “Busy, huh? Funny how you weren’t too busy to talk to him before.”
“I told you, it’s nothing,” I say firmly, hoping she’ll drop it.
But she doesn’t. She smiles that knowing smile of hers, the one that says she’s already figured out more than I want her to. “All right, if you say so.”
She heads back inside, leaving me standing there with my grocery bags and a sinking feeling in my chest.
Why am I even doing this?
It’s not like Ethan and I were friends—or anything else, for that matter. But the thought of facing him, of seeing that easy smile and wondering how much of it is real, is enough to make me keep my distance.
For now, that’s the safest option.
T he morning air is crisp as I lock the front door, juggling my keys and a half-full travel mug of coffee. I’m heading to the hardware store early to unpack a new shipment before the usual rush starts.
Just as I reach the driveway, I hear the unmistakable sound of Mia’s voice.
“Riley!”
I look up to see her stepping out of her car, a tote bag slung over her shoulder. She’s wearing wedges again—who even wears wedges this early?—and her face lights up like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“Mia,” I say cautiously, stopping mid-step. “You’re here early. ”
“Book club prep,” she replies, holding up the tote bag. “Dotty and I are going over our latest read before the meeting tomorrow.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “You should join, you know. We could use some new blood.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I say, trying not to sound too relieved. “Book clubs aren’t really my thing.”
Mia tilts her head, clearly unimpressed. “You mean reading isn’t your thing.”
I snort. “No, pretending to like people in book clubs isn’t my thing.”
She laughs, but her laughter cuts short as the front door of Ethan’s house swings open. My stomach tightens before I even see him.
And then there he is, stepping out onto the porch, his hair slightly damp like he just got out of the shower. He’s in a plain T-shirt and jeans, but somehow, he makes it look effortless.
“Morning!” Ethan calls, his voice annoyingly cheerful.
My pulse quickens, and my grip tightens on the mug in my hand. For a second, I think about saying something back, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I turn to Mia, my voice brisk. “I just remembered—I need to be at the store early. Shipment coming in.”
Mia raises an eyebrow. “Right now?”
“Yup. Right now,” I say, already heading for my truck.
“Riley,” Mia starts, but I’m not sticking around for this.
“Gotta go!” I call, hopping into the driver’s seat and starting the engine.
I catch a glimpse of Ethan watching me as I back out of the driveway, his brow furrowed like he’s trying to figure me out. Well, good luck with that. I’m not sticking around long enough for him to ask questions.
That evening, I sit on the porch steps, wiping dirt off my hands after planting the last of Aunt Dotty’s roses. I’m just about to go inside when Aunt Dotty steps out, looking suspiciously pleased with herself.
“Riley, sugar,” she says, clasping her hands together. “Mia and I are hosting a little dinner tonight. Just something casual. You should join us.”
I frown. “Dinner? When did this happen?”
“Oh, just now,” she replies breezily. “Mia insisted, and I thought it’d be nice. You’ve been so busy lately; you could use a good meal.”
Something about her tone sets off alarm bells, but I nod anyway. “Sure, I guess.”
“Wonderful,” Aunt Dotty says, already halfway back inside.
I walk into Aunt Dotty’s dining room to find the table already set, the smell of roasted chicken and freshly baked bread filling the air. Mia’s perched in her usual spot, chattering away while Aunt Dotty adds the finishing touches to the table.
I pause in the doorway, my instincts immediately on high alert. They’re both too cheerful .
With a bright smile, Aunt Dotty motions for me to sit. “We’re just waiting on Ethan.”
“Ethan?” I echo, narrowing my eyes.
“Oh, didn’t I mention?” she says innocently, though the glint in her eyes says otherwise. “I invited him, too. He’s part of the neighborhood now, after all.”
Before I can respond, the doorbell rings.
“Perfect timing,” Mia says, hopping up to answer it. Moments later, Ethan steps in, looking relaxed as ever in a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his easygoing grin firmly in place.
“Evening,” he says, his gaze flicking to me as he steps into the room. “Hope I’m not late.”
“Not at all,” Aunt Dotty replies, gesturing to the chair across from me. “Have a seat, Ethan.”
I drop into my chair, determined not to let them see how annoyed I am.
Dinner starts simple enough—Aunt Dotty fusses over everyone’s plates, and Mia dives into a story about one of her matchmaking adventures. Ethan listens intently, laughing at all the right moments, and I can’t help but notice how easily he fits in.
“So, Riley,” Mia says, turning to me with a gleam in her eye. “How’s the hardware store doing? Still driving men away with your charming personality?”
I glare at her. “Business is fine, thank you.”
“Good to hear,” Ethan chimes in, a teasing lilt in his voice. “The town wouldn’t survive without you keeping all the tools in line.”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop the corner of my mouth from twitching upward. “Yeah, and if you’re not careful, you’ll be next on my list.”
Aunt Dotty chuckles. “She’s been running that store like a well-oiled machine since she was barely out of high school,” she says proudly. “I always knew she’d be the one to keep things together.”
I glance at Aunt Dotty, surprised by the rare moment of open praise, but she’s already busy passing the bread.
“And what about you, Ethan?” Mia asks, leaning forward. “How’s life treating you in Bardstown?”
Ethan smiles, leaning back in his chair. “It’s been… an adjustment,” he admits. “But a good one. I’m starting to appreciate the slower pace.”
“And the people?” Mia presses, clearly fishing for something.
“They’ve been interesting,” Ethan replies, his eyes flicking to me for a split second.
Mia catches the look and grins. I mentally curse her and Aunt Dotty for their not-so-subtle matchmaking efforts. Thankfully, Aunt Dotty steers the conversation back to safer ground.
“Ethan, have you started making any new plans for the house yet?” she asks .
“I’m working on it,” he says, his tone thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward the window. “I’ve got a room I want to turn into an office, and the yard could use some more love. It’s… a work in progress, but I want it to feel like it’s mine, you know?”
His words catch me off guard. For a moment, he’s not the polished, overly confident city boy I’ve pegged him as. There’s something unguarded about the way he talks about the house—like he’s not just looking for a fresh start, but something more lasting. And for some reason, that unsettles me.
“Riley could help with that,” Mia says, her voice light but full of mischief. She leans back in her chair like she’s just dropped the most brilliant idea of the evening.
I whip my head toward her so fast I nearly knock over my drink. 'Mia,' I say sharply, my voice low and warning.
“What?” she says, all wide-eyed innocence. “You’re good at this stuff. Don’t act like you’re not.”
“Don’t worry, Riley,” he says with a grin, his voice low enough that it feels like a challenge. “I’ll do my best to stay in line—at least until you admit you don’t hate me as much as you think you do.”
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to ignore the way my stomach flips at his grin. It’s infuriating how easily he gets under my skin, like he knows exactly how to push every button.
I’m not falling for it. Not now, not ever.