I tug back the paisley shower curtain and grab my facewash off the tub’s ledge, squeezing a careful amount into my palm.
The citrus scent is usually enough to lift my mood, but not tonight.
Sighing, I turn back to my sink, the running water finally turning warm, and lather my hands together.
“You gotta give up one of these days,” I reprimand myself before tipping my face down and scrubbing the bubbles into my skin.
Every couple of weeks, ever since I moved in, I deliver cookies or breads or desserts to the incredibly hot man across the street. Hans.
He’s… I don’t know how to explain it. He’s just different. And I shouldn’t even have an opinion on him because I’ve only seen him up close that one time. That first time I saw him.
And if his track record since is any indication, I only got that close because I caught him off guard. Because he hadn’t known I’d moved in.
I had begun to wonder if I even had an across-the-street neighbor, but the realtor promised the single-story home was occupied. And I asked no less than three times because I was a little creeped out by the empty house at the end of the street. So I kept an eye out for my supposed neighbor.
Even though the lots here—on the edge of this little town—are large, our driveways are perfectly lined up. It made me feel a weird sort of companionship with the neighbor I hadn’t met yet. Like we were in this together, with the other houses in our neighborhood out of sight around the corner, feeling a world away.
It was three weeks and four days after I spent the first night in my first home that a plain white pickup truck pulled into the driveway across from mine.
I was so excited that I didn’t even check what I was wearing, didn’t take even a moment to dust on some bronzer. I just leaped off my couch and walked as fast as my legs were willing to go out my front door, down my cracked driveway, and up his. I was already at the back bumper of his truck when he climbed out.
And then my breath caught. Because he was… handsome. Like so handsome, but also intimidating. And strong. He looked so freaking strong.
My neglected libido tumbled out of hibernation like a hungry bear rolling out of her cave, dried leaves shaking off with each roll, until she splashed headfirst into a lake that smelled of man.
I snort at myself, causing water to splash over the edge of the sink, as I remember the way I acted that day.
My palm was probably sweaty when I stuck it out between us.
His long dark blond hair was pulled back into a bun, with a few pieces escaping and falling across his eyes. And it did things to me. Because they weren’t just eyes. They were intense, and his irises are such a deep brown they almost looked black. And his jaw line… I could faint now just thinking of it. It’s chiseled, and it was covered in this stubble several shades darker than his hair.
It was too much.
Hans was too much.
So I said the only thing I could manage. I’m Cassie, your new neighbor.
He didn’t look happy. Not before I said it, and even less so after I said it. But he did reply, with what I’ve had to assume is his first name.
Hans.
Hans, the Scandinavian fantasy I didn’t know I had. Please, pretty please, swing me up over your shoulder and carry me off to your bedroom. We can pretend it’s a Viking encampment. You’re the main warrior dude, and I’m the princess you just stole from your enemy to claim as your own…
I turn off the water and squeeze my eyes shut as I pat my face dry with a clean towel.
Of course, none of that stuff happened. Instead of stealing and ravishing me, Hans dropped my hand, slammed his truck door, strode into his garage, and hit the button to shut the overhead door without so much as a glance over his shoulder for a second look at me.
Quite the ding to thee old self-esteem.
But after that wildly successful first meeting, I figured I’d win him over with baked goods.
And thus began our yearlong game of cat and mouse.
Though, I’m not really sure who’s who in our situation.
Because I catch glimpses of him. Hans pulling his truck straight into his garage, Hans pulling out of his garage, Hans walking back from his mailbox with strides too long and fast for me to ever accidentally meet him while heading out to check on my own mail—trust me, I’ve tried. So I know he’s still alive. And that he still lives there. But he never answers the door.
Not once.
I turn off the light and enter my bedroom.
Stripping off my shorts and underwear, I toss my bra on the floor and dig out a pair of sleep shorts.
Technically the shirt I wore over to Hans’s house is a pajama top, but with a bra, it looks like any other tank top. And it’s not like he saw me anyway.
I turn off my bedside lamp and drop into bed.
Time to scroll recipes while I wonder if Hans actually eats what I leave for him or if he just throws it all away and returns the empty container.
