Chapter Four
The Girl Next Door
Chase
The rental is perfect.
It’s a charming two-story Craftsman with gray cedar shingles and crisp white trim, perched just high enough on the dunes to offer a stunning view of the lake.
A wraparound porch, complete with a couple of wooden rocking chairs, faces the water, and there’s a private path that leads straight to the beach.
Inside, the space is designed for easy living—vaulted ceilings, large windows, and hardwood floors worn soft by sand-dusted feet. The kitchen is small but functional, and the living room features an overstuffed couch that looks as if it was made for post-beach naps.
I drop my grocery bags onto the counter and take it all in.
This is exactly what I need.
No packed schedules, no pressure from the front office, no cameras in my face. Just me, my dog, and an entire summer to clear my head before my contract negotiations ramp up.
I slide a few items into the fridge, then pause when I realize Rip isn’t glued to my side anymore.
“Rip?”
Silence.
Shit.
I glance toward the sliding glass doors that lead to the back deck, and sure enough, they’re cracked open just enough for an 80-pound mass of pure disobedience to squeeze through.
I walk outside and scan the dunes until I spot him.
In her yard.
The woman from the grocery store.
She doesn’t see me yet. She’s crouched in the grass, her long fingers scratching behind Rip’s ears while my traitorous dog soaks it up like she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
“You’re such a good boy,” she coos, her voice softer than I’ve heard it.
Rip is loving it. He has a big, dumb, tongue-lolling grin, his paws planted firmly on her thighs, as if he’s already chosen her as his new favorite person.
My damn dog.
I take a moment to size her up in the daylight.
She’s tall—maybe five-eight or five-nine. Long legs, toned but soft in all the right places, tanned like she’s spent some time in the sun. Her dark brown hair is flecked with gold and blows gently in the breeze.
And her face?
Would be gorgeous—if she didn’t look like the type of woman who could destroy a man for sport.
High cheekbones, full lips, and expressive brown eyes that seem to assess everything and everyone with instant judgment.
A perfect little nose that wrinkles slightly when she’s amused—and from what I can tell, she’s not amused by me at all.
She looks like she’d be devastating if she smiled at a guy.
Not that I’ll ever be on the receiving end of it.
I clear my throat and step off my deck and into the grass.
She lifts her head, and just like that, her entire demeanor shifts.
Her expression closes off. Her fingers stop scratching behind Rip’s ears. The warmth in her face vanishes so quickly it’s almost impressive.
“Well, well, well,” I drawl, crossing my arms as I approach. “You sure change your tune when you don’t realize you’re talking to my dog.”
Her lips press together as she straightens.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” she replies coolly.
“No, but I still feel personally betrayed.” I glance at Rip, who is sitting obediently at her feet, tail thumping the grass like she’s his long-lost soulmate. “Seriously?”
She lifts a single brow. “Maybe he has good taste.”
I scoff.
She exhales, turning back to Rip. “Go home, buddy.”
Rip does not go home. Rip leans harder against her legs, as if sensing the chance to ruin my life.
I huff and step forward, slapping my thigh. “Rip, let’s go.”
Nothing.
She lifts her chin, looking smug. “Looks like he’s made his choice.”
“You feeding him steak over here or something?”
“Just some affection.” She scratches him one last time, then sighs. “I guess you can stay.”
I frown. “Were you talking to me or the dog?”
She gives me a once-over. “Not entirely sure yet.”
I arch a brow. “You always this charming?”
“Only for people who deserve it.”
Jeez, she’s mean.
And—annoyingly—kind of hot when she is.
I kneel, giving Rip a quick chin scratch. “You really gonna abandon me for some woman you just met?”
Rip sneezes.
Scottie smirks. “Guess that’s a yes.”
I exhale sharply, straightening. “Look, as much as I’m loving our continued run-ins, I need my dog back.”
She shrugs. “That’s between you and him.”
I reach into my back pocket, pull out a dog treat, and hold it up. “Rip. Come.”
Rip finally moves, trotting over as if I didn’t just watch him abandon our entire relationship for some stranger with a nice voice.
She watches, unimpressed. “Weak.”
I shoot her a look as I snap Rip’s collar. “So, what’s your story? Just renting this place for the weekend?”
She groans. “Same for you, I guess?”
“Nope.” I grin. “I’m here all month.”
She closes her eyes briefly, like she’s physically restraining herself from committing a crime. “Great. That’s great.”
I chuckle. “What about you?”
She exhales. “Yeah. Here for a month. I need peace and quiet. I’m working.”
“Working?”
She sighs, as if dreading the conversation. “My next book is overdue to my publisher.”
I’m suddenly curious. “What do you write?”
She hesitates, then finally mutters, “Nonfiction.”
Nonfiction. Okay.
She’s being cagey as hell about it, though, so I press. “Like what?”
She lets out a slow breath, staring at the ground for a moment before finally looking up. “My first book was called The Love Delusion: Why Romance is the Greatest Scam in Human History.”
I blink.
And then it clicks.
I know that title.
I tilt my head, staring at her. “Wait. You’re Scottie Calloway?”
She sighs, like she already knows where this is going.
I grin. Oh, this is too good.
“You’re, like, a big deal.”
“Don’t,” she says flatly.
“No, no, I mean—wow.” I laugh, shaking my head. “My teammate’s girlfriend is obsessed with your books.”
She blinks, confused.
I wave a hand. “Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I now understand exactly why you’re such a delight.”
She crosses her arms, unimpressed. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
I smirk. “Nothing.” I was right—she’s a total man-eater.
Her nostrils flare slightly.
The best part about this situation? She obviously has no clue who I am.
I lean a shoulder against the porch railing, crossing my arms. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
Her brows pull together slightly. “Am I supposed to?”
I blink. “I play for the Dallas Stampede.”
She gives me a blank look.
I resist the urge to run a hand down my face. “The hockey team.”
A slow nod, as if she’s trying to place the name.
“The sport with sticks and pucks…played on ice…”
That earns me an eye roll. “I know what hockey is.”
“Didn’t seem like it.”
“I’m from Dallas; I just…don’t watch hockey.”
“Really? You’re from Dallas?”
She nods.
That’s random.
“And you don’t watch hockey at all?” I let out a low whistle. “Damn.”
“Sorry to bruise your ego,” she says, not sounding sorry at all.
“I’ll live.”
She shifts slightly, arms still crossed, her gaze darting toward my house—how close it is to her place. A mere thirty feet away.
“I guess I’ll see you around,” I say.
Her hands go to her hips as I retreat toward my porch, still smirking. “I need peace and quiet, so try to keep it down,” she calls after me.
I let out a low chuckle as I push inside, Rip trotting in behind me.
I have no idea what just happened out there, but damn—this summer just got more fun.
***
The sun is setting by the time I step outside, Rip at my heels, still looking smug about his earlier betrayal. I run a hand through his fur absentmindedly, my gaze flicking toward Scarlett’s house. Her porch light is on, casting a warm glow over the front steps.
I stare at the carton of oat milk in my hand for a moment, debating.
I could keep it. It’s not like I need it, but keeping it out of spite would be a little too petty, even for me. And maybe—just maybe—I don’t totally hate the idea of throwing her off her game.
So, before I can overthink it, I walk over, place the carton neatly by her front door, and turn back before I do something stupid. Like knock. Or stick around to see her reaction.
I’m halfway up my own porch steps when Rip lets out a low huff, looking back toward her house.
“Don’t give me that look,” I mutter, pushing my door open. “I can be nice.”
Not that I plan on making it a habit.
***
The smell of charcoal and sizzling burgers hangs thick in the warm Michigan air as I step onto my parents’ back deck.
The yard looks the same as it always has—worn Adirondack chairs circled around a fire pit, the wooden fence still half-painted from the summer Dad got ambitious and then promptly gave up.
There’s a cooler of drinks by the grill, and the sound of laughter filters through the screen door as Evie argues with Owen about something that probably doesn’t matter.
It’s good to be home. Familiar.
“About time,” my dad grumbles, flipping a burger. “We were starting to think you got lost.”
“I almost did get lost.” I set down a six-pack of beer and smirk. It’s probably a sign that it’s been too long since I’ve been home—or that the town has changed since I lived here a dozen years ago.
Mom shakes her head at me, but her smile softens her expression. “Sit. Eat. Tell us about your life, since your sister says you’ve been avoiding actual conversation.”
Evie rolls her eyes. “Because he has.”
I grab a plate and drop into one of the chairs. “Not avoiding. Just busy.”
Dad snorts. “Busy doing what? It’s the off-season.”
“Training,” I lie smoothly, taking a sip of my drink. “Getting my mind right before next year.”
They all exchange a look, the one that says we weren’t born yesterday, Chase.
I don’t want them to worry. They have enough on their plates without me adding my uncertain future to the pile.
Owen shifts in his chair, adjusting his position in his wheelchair. “You still thinking about that captaincy thing?” he asks.
I glance at him. Owen doesn’t ask questions unless he really wants to know.
He’s never been one for small talk, not since the accident.
For a second, I consider telling him everything—how the team’s been hinting that I need to clean up my image, how the contract renewal feels like a weight I can’t shake, how I’m starting to wonder if I’m really cut out for it at all.
But instead, I just shrug. “Something like that.”
Owen studies me for a beat before nodding. “You’d be good at it.”
My chest tightens, and I clear my throat. “Yeah, well. We’ll see.”
Mom, ever perceptive, cuts in before the conversation can get heavier. “Tell us about this neighbor of yours,” she says, throwing me a knowing look. “Evie mentioned something about a famous writer?”
I groan. “Not this again.” I should never have texted my twin sister about that.
Evie smirks. “So, I Googled her, and she’s really pretty too.”
I sigh, ignoring that remark, and lean back in my chair. “She’s a bestselling author, yeah. But she’s also the most infuriating human being I’ve ever met. Hates my guts for no reason.”
Dad arches a brow. “No reason at all?”
“None.”
Owen chuckles. “I bet she has a reason.”
I scowl. “Well, I don’t know what it is.”
Mom hums, flipping the burgers on the grill. “Are you sure she actually hates you?”
“Uh, yeah. The woman practically set me on fire with a look, and we’ve spoken all of twice.”
Evie snickers. “She wouldn’t be the first.”
I ignore her. “She’s just angry. It’s exhausting.”
Mom turns, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “People who walk around with that much anger usually aren’t really mad at you, honey. They’re mad at something else. You just happen to be in the line of fire.”
That makes me pause.
Because, yeah, Scarlett is angry. And I’ve done nothing. I’ve met plenty of people who don’t like me, but this is different.
She has a wall up so thick it’s practically made of reinforced steel.
For some reason, I can’t help wanting to break through.
Owen smirks. “Sounds like you like her.”
“Absolutely not,” I say quickly.
Evie grins. “I don’t know, Chase. You seem pretty interested.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “You all suck.”
Mom pats my shoulder, smiling in that way only moms can. “Just be nice, sweetheart.”
“Don’t tell me you’re siding with her.”
Mom winks. “I’m just saying… sometimes the people who frustrate us the most are the ones we end up learning the most from.”
I shake my head, but something about that settles deep in my chest. I sip my IPA and wonder if Mom’s right. If Scarlett’s not actually mad at me, what’s she so angry about?