5. Neesha
NEESHA
“ W hy didn’t you tell me you were renting Mimi’s house to that handyman who should come with a warning label?” I ask Emmy at the bookstore.
She looks at me with an innocent expression as she sets her bag and lunch on the bookstore counter. “You mean Lucian?”
“Who else is built like an HGTV handyman, except for Dawson?”
Emmy gets that dreamy look on her face when thinking about her fiancé. “Ah, yes, my Gold Dog…”
I wave a hand in front of her. “Hey, no fantasizing about your future husband. I need answers.”
She tilts her head to look at me. “I told you we were renting it out before we sell it. And Lucian is Mr. Fix-It.”
“I noticed,” I say unhappily. “I may have accidentally observed him working outside a few times—purely for safety reasons, of course. Just making sure he’s not doing anything suspicious like…illegal construction that doesn’t follow code.”
“Wait—” She stares at me. “Are you spying on him?”
I try to look offended by what she’s insinuating. “Emmy, I couldn’t help it. He was in the backyard, cutting two-by-fours and … ”
“You were checking him out,” she finishes with a sly grin.
“No.” I put a hand up in denial. “I am not interested, if that’s what you’re implying. I only noticed that he’s good-looking because I have functioning eyeballs. But that doesn’t mean I want to date him. I don’t have much faith in the male species.” I start shelving books to avoid her gaze.
“You know, it’s quite the coincidence that Lucian’s your neighbor,” Emmy says. “Maybe you should bring him some cupcakes as a welcome present.”
“Nice try, but he’s been buying cupcakes ever since we met. I’m starting to get suspicious, because a man that ripped is definitely not eating cupcakes. He’s probably feeding them to squirrels or something.”
“So invite him over on your turf. Welcome him to the neighborhood.”
“That’s the thing…” I pause. “I didn’t tell him where I lived.”
“What?” She shakes her head. “Why?”
“Because he had just told me that he likes his neighbors to keep their space and Mrs. Nelson’s already got him concerned. So, I just told him I lived somewhere ‘close by.’”
“You’re literally next door,” she finishes, then lets out a long exhale. “Neesha. You need to tell him, or he’s going to figure it out eventually.”
“I will. But I don’t want him to know yet.”
“How will you avoid him?” she asks.
“Well, I have a plan.”
“Neesha.” She gives me a look.
“It involves sneaking through the neighbor’s gate so he doesn’t see me coming and going. It’s working out great so far,” I say proudly.
I’m aware this makes me sound slightly unhinged, but when you’ve seen what can happen when the wrong person knows where you live, caution becomes second nature.
She shakes her head. “You’re going to do that all fall? What happens when it snows? ”
“Of course I’ll tell him by then,” I say. “I just want to make sure he’s harmless first.”
Emmy’s expression softens. “Neesha, this isn’t about what happened to your mom, is it? Because this doesn’t sound like you just trying to give him space.”
I pause, my shoulders tensing. “Maybe. Partially.”
When I was eight, we moved to Portland for six months, and a customer at her insurance job became obsessed with her.
He started showing up at our apartment, leaving gifts, following us to the grocery store.
It escalated until we had to get a restraining order and move.
That’s when we came back to Maple Falls, and it’s never been a problem since.
But I still remember how scared she was, how she’d check the locks three times before bed and peek through the curtains before we left the house.
“Mom always said you can never be too careful about who knows where you live,” I remind her.
“Some people seem nice at first, then they change. Mom’s stalker started small, by doing nice things.
Then it became a control thing. And she always said the worst part wasn’t the obvious stuff—it was how he made her question her own instincts. ”
“But Lucian isn’t some random customer, he’s?—”
“A guy I barely know who’s been unusually interested in my cupcakes,” I interrupt. “And he doesn’t like nosy neighbors. This works out great for both of us.”
“No, I was going to say he’s a good man.
He goes out of his way for people. When Mimi needed help, he offered to let her stay in the house and said he’d look after her while he lived there.
She chose to move to the assisted living facility anyway—but still, the fact that he offered? That’s just the kind of person he is.”
“Okay, so I know I’m being paranoid, but Mom’s voice is still in my head, telling me to be careful.
” I re-focus on shelving books to avoid Emmy’s glare.
“After all the anxiety between her stalker and Nate, I do not need another situation where a guy thinks he has some claim on me. I’m perfectly fine living in my world of ‘men are potentially problematic until proven otherwise,’ thank you very much. ”
She sighs, then touches my arm. “I know this is hard. You didn’t deserve any of that.
But you don’t need to wonder if Lucian’s okay.
Trust me, he’s safe. He’s been visiting Mimi since he arrived in town.
And he’s not like Nate in any way, shape, or form.
Just ask the others—” Her voice drops off abruptly, like she just realized she said something she shouldn’t have.
“What others?”
“I meant…the people he’s met,” she says, suddenly very interested in rearranging books on a nearby shelf.
“Who else does he know here? I thought he was new to town.” I follow her as she escapes toward the storage room.
She whirls around in the storage room doorway. “I promised not to tell, okay? And you’re making it really hard to keep that promise.”
“So he does have a secret.” I set my hands on my hips. “If you’re keeping something from me about Lucian, then you can’t tell him I’m living next door. Mutual secret-keeping.”
She sighs. “All right…I won’t tell. But eventually he’s going to notice you’re sneaking through fences.”
“That’s a tomorrow problem,” I hedge. “And whatever you’re hiding from me?” I tilt my head. “I knew there had to be some dark secret lurking beneath all the small-town charm.”
“Enough about secrets. You’re coming to the Ice Breakers Inaugural Bash right?” Emmy pivots.
“I don’t do hockey, remember?”
“Most of the town will be there. They invited Dawson since he’s a former player, but I need my bestie there for moral support. Please?”
I bite my lip. As much as I need the sales, the thought of navigating a room full of people, specifically eligible hockey players, makes my anxiety spike.
All I can imagine is a room full of Nates, each one more arrogant than the last. Fear has a way of rewiring your brain, and mine is apparently stuck on the “avoid all men” setting after what I’ve been through.
“Sorry, Em,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re flying solo on this one—Nate pretty much destroyed my faith in men. I’m only providing Ice Breaker cupcakes that are going to look amazing.”
“I hate that he did that to you,” she says, “but just because Nate was a controlling jerk and your mom had a stalker doesn’t mean every guy will be like that.”
“I do know that. I just need my heart to realize it too,” I say.
She pushes the rest of the stack of books toward me. “Take these home, then. Let them inspire you to believe in love again.”
I glance through the stack of romance novels, covers painted in soft pastels and dreamy sunsets. Couples about to kiss or already tangled in some cinematic moment that never includes bumping noses or burnt toast. “These look like fictional love stories.”
“They are,” she says flatly. “Before you tell me they’re not true, just read one.”
“Emmy, I don’t need fairy tales. I need a life plan. One that doesn’t involve knights on white horses. Love is just a distraction from the things I can control,” I defend.
“You also need to do more than work all the time.” She gives me a pointed look. “And since when is love just a distraction that doesn’t matter?”
She’s not wrong about working too much—I’m exhausted. But work has clear outcomes. Effort equals results. Love? That’s unpredictable and messy and has a tendency to blow up in your face when you least expect it.
“Can’t we try something else?” I say, carrying them to the back. “Like books about successful businesswomen? Or maybe cookbooks? Those make me happy too.” I hide the stack under a shelf in the back where we keep extra supplies for the cafe.
“Cupcakes aren’t going to keep you warm at night,” she says.
“No, but they won’t break my heart either,” I counter .
If there’s one thing I already know, I stopped believing in love a long time ago.
On my way home from work I take my secret shortcut behind my neighbor’s house to avoid any awkward Lucian encounters. The fence is practically in my backyard, and the corner meets the edge of Lucian’s backyard.
I try the gate like I have all week and notice it’s locked. I jiggle the handle, but the latch is tight. Fine. Plan B it is.
I hike my foot up to the fence slat, start to hoist myself over, and the moment my head clears the top, I hear a door creak open. One leg halfway over, and I’m caught between two choices: drop down on my neighbor’s side, or mine. But I can’t just freeze here on top of the fence.
I look up, and right then, Lucian steps into the yard carrying a two-by-four that he sets in the grass next to two sawhorses.
We lock eyes. I’m literally straddling his fence, one leg on each side, caught red-handed in the most awkward position possible.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then I realize I need to commit to this situation before it gets even weirder because this position is causing me serious discomfort.
I swing my other leg over and drop down into his yard with what I hope passes for casual confidence, brushing off my clothes like fence climbing is a totally normal evening activity.