The Packing List

Chapter 1

I am not running away. I’m… consciously uncoupling from my old life.

Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself.

And the difference matters, at least to my ego, and maybe to the nice gray-haired man at the convenience store in Charlotte who asked where I was heading with a Coke slushy and an unreasonably large bag of peanut M it cuts between two dunes that are only twenty yards away.

This is why I’ve committed myself to living in Oak Island for a year.

How many times does a person get to live right on the beach?

Never is the answer to that question, at least for me.

I’ve lived my entire life in the middle of North Carolina—Chapel Hill.

God, I love it there, with all of its quirky college-town charm—but my old life is there. And I needed a break.

I pop the hatch of my Subaru and pull out the essentials: groceries to start, then I’ll grab clothes on the second trip.

The sun is warm but not punishing, late afternoon turning the dunes gold.

A seagull squawks overhead then heads out to sea.

The only sound louder than the surf is the thunk thunk thunk of the cooler as I drag it up the wooden steps.

The right half of the duplex—the one I’ve rented—has a narrow porch with graying natural wood railings and a few creaky-looking rocking chairs.

Next door, on the left side, a faded green beach towel is draped over the railing.

A neighbor. I hope they’re nice. And that they like to keep to themselves. I’m craving solitude.

I drop the cooler at the door when motion catches my eye—down the access path, a man is marching up through the sand from the beach.

He’s tall and skinny, broad-shouldered, carrying a bunched-up towel under one arm and using another to dry his hair.

The sunlight glints off his wet skin. When he gets closer, I can see water beads dotting his collarbone.

Holy hell.

My gaze wanders from his damp dark hair with a slight curl at the nape of his neck, to the strong square lines of his shoulders, then to his abs, then—because I am not dead, no matter how I feel about love and romance—to the small scar low on his left ribs. He’s human. Not a mirage.

I decide there’s no rush—I can ogle the mysterious beach guy for a few more seconds. But then he lifts his head.

And my stomach drops.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

Zach Draper.

“What the ever loving…” I mutter under my breath, but it’s too late. I’m busted.

His expression shifts from polite curiosity to recognition. “Jodie?”

I force my lips into something resembling a smile. “If it isn’t Zach Draper.” Zach is a house flipper. A successful one. My ex-husband, Michael, worked with him on a whole slew of projects. Michael and Zach always had a real buddy-buddy rapport.

Zach climbs the porch steps of the other side of the duplex, his towel now draped over his shoulder, water still dripping from his hair.

Up close, he looks even better—slightly tanner, maybe, than the last time I saw him, at Michael’s construction company’s holiday party. He’s definitely wearing fewer clothes.

“What are you doing here?” His mesmerizing green eyes narrow in suspicion.

“I live here now.” The words come out before I’ve had a chance to decide how much I want to explain.

His brows rise. “Here? As in…” He gestures toward my door.

“As in, right here,” I confirm, pointing to what is apparently my half of this duplex.

He lets out a low whistle. “No shit. Small world.”

Comically small, I think, resisting the urge to gently bang my head against the shutters.

And to think… it would’ve been an even more unbelievable coincidence if Michael and Zach had actually started the house-flipping partnership Michael had been so keen to form.

Michael tried to pull me into the arrangement as well, hoping to utilize my status as a licensed real estate agent to satisfy the sales part of the equation.

I was a “no” from the start, despite Michael’s non-stop pleas for me to change my mind.

Just say yes. You know I’ll only keep asking.

Something always felt off about the idea, although to be fair, I’ve always been a “play it safe” sort of person.

Real estate was reliable work for me, as was construction for Michael.

Flipping? That was a whole lot of risk, and I didn’t see the point.

That night at the holiday party, Michael, half-drunk, got into it with me.

What is your problem? We could make so much money. Don’t you want to be rich? I do.

We make plenty of money. Why make our lives more complicated?

We’re playing small ball right now. I need more out of life, Jodie. A lot more.

He’d said “a lot more” with so much emphasis that night that it haunted me.

I couldn’t help but wonder if he was sending a signal.

Dropping a hint. A few short months later, I learned that Michael had been spending a lot of time with a lot of women who were not me.

I found out when he left a condom wrapper in the wastebasket in our bathroom.

We haven’t used condoms in years. Bastard.

The night of the party, Zach walked up on us mid-argument. He asked how we were doing, complimented my dress, then Michael lobbed the ball back into my court.

Jodie doesn’t want to do it, Zach. She thinks flipping is too risky.

Zach’s eyebrows reached for the ceiling, then he nodded and politely excused himself. Awkward didn’t begin to cover it. And I haven’t talked to Zach since. He probably thinks I’m a bitch for throwing cold water on their big business plans.

But I’m not about to get into that now. “How long are you here?” I adopt an uncharacteristically breezy tone. Please say you’re just passing through.

“The foreseeable future. I moved in two weeks ago. My daughter just started school at UNC-Wilmington, so I relocated to the beach. I wanted to be closer to her. I figure I have four years to fix a few things between us.”

“Wilmington’s a good hour away. Why not move down there?”

He shrugs. “She’s a college student. I had to give her some space.” His gaze flicks to the back of my car, which is crammed with boxes. “Looks like you brought a lot of gear. Is that a circular saw in the driveway?”

I’d set it down on the ground to reach the cooler—I definitely did not pack things in perfect order. “Yep. Starting fresh. New place, new project.”

He slides me a questioning look. “Project?”

I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. After all, I’m about to embark on the very venture I’d dubbed “too risky”.

“I’m going to flip a house.” I raise my hand to let him know to hold off on any immediate criticism.

“And I already know what you’re going to say.

That I don’t know what I’m doing and I’m the person who used to talk about how flipping is too risky.

But I already found a property. I just need to win the auction next week. ”

A wide grin crosses his face, making his eyes flicker with life. “Let me guess. The house down at 74th Street and Beach Blvd? The blue two-story with the massive porch?”

“Yes… how do you know that?”

“Because I’m planning to bid on it, too. I gotta stay busy while I’m here.”

I let out a laugh that’s 80% incredulous, 20% of course the universe thinks this is funny. “Well, that’s an unfortunate coincidence.”

He waves it off, although there’s a glint in his eye that suggests he’d take great enjoyment from snatching the house out from under my nose. “Or some friendly competition.”

“I don’t know how friendly it’s going to be.” I turn to head back to the car before I can say something truly impolite. I am not going to lose out on that house. My entire plan for the next year revolves around it.

Zach leans against his porch railing, clearly in no hurry to retreat. “You know, Jodie, if you want a little advice—”

“I’m good,” I blurt, stomping down the stairs to the car.

He chuckles. “Suit yourself.”

I haul my suitcase out of the back and carry the bag up my steps, feeling his gaze on me. I’m not imagining it. He’s watching me. Which is… unnerving. And maybe perhaps a tiny bit flattering.

By the time I return with the third load, he’s gone. The door to his half of the duplex is closed, though faint music drifts through the shared wall. Yacht rock. I do have a soft spot for Kenny Loggins…

I exhale and stand for a moment in the fading late-day sunlight.

I can handle this. I can live next door to Zach Draper without it being a problem.

I’ve survived divorce, insufferable small talk with my ex’s friends, an unbelievably uncomfortable grocery store run-in with his new girlfriend, and packing up my entire life into cardboard boxes. Things can’t get worse.

Still, as I carry in my memory foam pillows and a box of towels because I do not trust that the rental company would supply anything decent, a small, traitorous thought whispers in my brain: Zach Draper is unfairly hot.