Chapter 4
ALEX
After staring at New York’s shapely ass as she strutted down the street—because I was only human, not dead—I did what I always did when something threatened to derail my focus.
I went to work.
Harbor Lane. My newest flip. A solid American foursquare with good bones, decent setbacks, and just enough problems to keep things interesting without turning into a money pit.
It needed love, an extra garage and updated systems. But the architecture?
Untouchable. You keep the soul, modernize the rest, and people line up with checkbooks.
This one would sell in a week.
The crew was packing up when I pulled in, their tools stacked, the site clean, and no bullshit. I walked the property the way I always did—slowly, methodically, my eyes everywhere. I had a schedule, and if they were behind, we’d talk about it. If they were lazy, we’d talk about it louder.
But they were right on track.
Good work meant I didn’t have to say much. I liked that. I didn’t hire idiots. I hired guys who knew their shit and didn’t waste my time.
I hated surprises. I hated interruptions. I hated messes that weren’t planned, which made it deeply annoying that once I left Harbor Lane, I found myself turning onto Main Road instead of heading home.
I didn’t need to look up to know where I was going. You could see the inn from half a mile away.
It was hard to miss, impossible, really. That fucking pink slapped you in the face whether you wanted it to or not—loud and aggressive, like the building itself was daring you to say something. I hated that color.
I’d told Edna Hartwell once, very calmly, that I’d repaint it for free. A nice gray. Maybe white. Something dignified.
She hit me with her cane.
“Mind your own damn business,” she’d yelled, a cigarette dangling from her mouth like punctuation.
I’d laughed. I could still smell the smoke on her breath when I thought about it. She was mean. Sharp. A straight arrow who didn’t care if you liked her. She respected work, effort, and people who followed through.
Which was why the niece confused the hell out of me.
New York was… different.
She talked too fast, thought even faster, and looked like she’d been dropped into this town by mistake. Covered in dust and attitude she hauled around baggage, pretending it didn’t weigh anything.
She was also standing alone in a place that would eat her alive if she let it.
I slowed as I passed the inn. I felt like a fucking creeper, spying on her like that. I didn’t stop, just wanted to confirm the lights were on. And they were.
A white BMW SUV was parked out front. I recognized it immediately.
Becca Hartwell, local realtor. I’d bought a couple of properties through her over the years.
Fair deals. No bullshit. We weren’t friends, but we were on nodding terms. The kind you get in small towns when you’ve crossed paths often enough to trust the paperwork.
So New York wasn’t completely alone. Good. I told myself that was all I needed—a check, nothing more.
Then I kept driving.
She wasn’t my problem.
I didn’t get involved with odd women carrying emotional suitcases bigger than their actual ones. I flipped houses. I fixed things. I left. That was the rule.
Yet…
I drove on, my jaw tight, annoyed as hell that a pink inn and a woman from New York had managed to get under my skin in under twenty-four hours.
Damnit. This was exactly why I didn’t do distractions. And exactly why I had a feeling this one wasn’t going to listen.
Main Road stretched ahead, darkening as the town thinned out. Streetlights gave way to long patches of shadow. The ocean was off to my right somewhere. I couldn’t see it, but I could smell it—salt, kelp, and that damp, old breath the coast carried like it owned you.
I rolled my shoulders and tried to shake her out of my head.
Didn’t work.
It wasn’t just the looks, though I noticed those: blue eyes, dark hair, thick lips, great ass. It was the way she moved, like the world owed her a fight. Like she’d take a hit, laugh it off, and refuse to ask for help no matter how bad it got.
I’d seen that before. It usually ended badly.
I kept my hands steady on the wheel and did what I always did when something threatened to turn into a problem.
I put it in a box. New York: boxed. Pink inn: boxed. The urge to turn around and check again: boxed.
I drove past the turn for my place and didn’t even notice until I saw the sign in my headlights.
“Shit.” I corrected course at the next intersection, taking the loop that would land me back where I belonged.
The thing about routines was, they worked. Until they didn’t.
I’d built my life around rules that kept me sane and kept my business clean. Rules made sure I didn’t end up tangled in someone else’s mess, dragging it behind me like a suitcase with busted wheels.
Rules.
Rule one: Don’t get attached to properties.
I didn’t buy homes because they were “charming.” I bought them because the math made sense. Because the bones were good. Because I could take something neglected and make it valuable again. Then I sold it. That was the whole point. You didn’t fall in love with drywall.
Rule two: Don’t rescue people who didn’t ask to be rescued.
You offered help once. If they said no, you left them to their choices. It kept you from becoming the guy who fixed everyone’s shit while yours rotted quietly in the background.
Rule three: Never mix business and feelings.
Feelings made you sloppy. Sloppy got expensive.
Rule four: You don’t chase women.
If a woman wanted you, you’d know. If she didn’t, you didn’t push. You didn’t hover. You didn’t linger around like a damn stray dog.
And rule five, the one that mattered most: Don’t start something you can’t walk away from.
That last one had saved my ass more times than I could count. The problem was, I’d already started something.
Not on purpose, but it was there. The beginning of a thread, loose and tempting, and I hated that my brain kept tugging at it.
Fuck.
She’d looked at me like I was the enemy and the solution all in one breath. Like she didn’t trust me but wanted to. Like she was standing on the edge of something and pretending it wasn’t a drop.
I’d heard her voice in my head—intelligent, funny, fast—and it pissed me off because I didn’t carry people around in my head. I carried numbers, schedules, material lists.
I turned onto my street and slowed, the tires crunching gravel as I pulled into my driveway.
My place wasn’t fancy. It was clean and quiet. It was mine.
I killed the engine and sat there for a second, my hands still on the wheel as I listened to the tick of cooling metal. The night pressed in, calm and dark, the kind of calm I’d earned.
Then my brain, because it was apparently a traitor, tossed me a vivid picture: New York inside that inn, stumbling around in the dim, probably tripping over a loose floorboard, probably talking to herself, probably insulting a painting.
I exhaled, climbed out of the SUV, and walked to the front door. I unlocked it and stepped inside, already moving on autopilot. Keys on the hook. Boots by the door. Lights in order. Habit was comfort. Habit was control.
I poured a glass of water and drank half of it. The house was quiet. Just the fridge humming and the wind outside.
Most people called that lonely. They were wrong.
I set the glass down and leaned against the counter, staring out into the dark.
She’s fine, I told myself.
Becca’s SUV was there. Becca knew the town and the inn. She wouldn’t let New York get herself killed on her first night.
I didn’t like the thought of New York being alone in that place, not because I cared but because it was a dumb setup. A person like her, city type, used to control in different ways, walking into a building with six months of dust and broken routines? That was an accident waiting to happen.
And she was accident-prone. I could tell.
I left the kitchen and walked through the house, checking locks the same way I checked job sites: front door, back door, windows. The muscle memory kept my mind from running in circles.
But when I got to the bedroom, the circles came back anyway.
Damnit. I lay down and stared at the ceiling, my arms behind my head.
The thing was, I didn’t have time for this.
I had projects, deadlines, a crew that depended on me being consistent and clear-headed. I had permits to pull, inspectors to schedule, and subcontractors who would absolutely try to bullshit me if I wasn’t on top of them.
I didn’t have time for women with baggage. I wasn’t a fucking teenager. I wasn’t bored or lonely. I didn’t need some woman with a suitcase and a mouth full of sarcasm to come in and mess with my head.
Besides, she wasn’t my type.
My type didn’t show up sweaty and pissed off and covered in dust and then look at me like she wanted to fight me and kiss me in the same five seconds.
My type didn’t stare at my crotch like she was trying to solve a mystery.
My type didn’t make me laugh.
Fuck. Stop. Just stop.
I ran my fingers through my hair, thinking of that ugly pink inn. I trusted the bones of that place more than the paint. I’d seen worse. I’d fixed worse.
What I didn’t trust was what that place did to people.
It pulled them in. It demanded things—time, money, attention. It wasn’t a house. It was a creature, and New York had walked right into its mouth like she was looking for a story.
Maybe that was her problem. Maybe that was her gift. She was a writer.
Either way, I didn’t need it in my life.
My eyes drifted to the ceiling, and I saw that pink inn again. I pictured New York standing inside, looking at that life-size statue of Edna, and I almost smiled.
Almost.
Edna had been a pain in the ass. I’d had more arguments with that stubborn old woman than any of my crew. She’d cared about appearances but not about people’s opinions. She’d run that inn with an iron fist and a cigarette.
And somehow she’d left it to New York. Why? The why of that still didn’t sit right with me. Edna didn’t hand over her kingdom unless she meant something by it.
Which meant New York wasn’t here by accident. She was here because Edna had wanted her here.
Damnit. What the hell was I doing? I didn’t wonder. I didn’t get distracted by a woman I’d known for half a day.
Besides, she’d never stay. She’d sell, I told myself again.
Six months closed? A screaming boiler? A leaking roof? That kind of mess didn’t get solved by a writer with a suitcase, great tits, and a stubborn chin.
New York didn’t know what she was getting into. She’d realize it fast.
She’d put it on the market. Becca would list it. Some out-of-town couple would buy it and paint it white and turn it into a wedding factory.
And New York would leave. That was how this went.
The truth was, I didn’t want to see her fail—not because I wanted her but because I didn’t like watching someone get eaten alive when they didn’t even know the teeth were there.
And if she stayed… if she decided to fight for that inn…
That would make her stubborn like her great aunt. And stubborn was dangerous.
Stubborn people pulled you in. They made you care. They made you break rules.
I exhaled through my nose and stared at the floor. No. Not my problem.
“Fuck.” I closed my eyes. This was how it started, attention where it didn’t belong.
She’d sell. She’d move on. She wouldn’t last.
I wasn’t getting involved in something with an expiration date.
Not my problem.