I barely hear him. I’m still staring at the door.
Because a second later, it swings open.
And there he is.
Cole.
He steps onto the porch in gray sweatpants and a white muscle shirt, his hair messy, his jaw tight. He stops cold when he sees me, his expression unreadable.
I feel like I’m falling through the earth.
He blinks once. Slowly. Then starts walking.
My pulse spikes.
“Thank you for blessing us with your presence, Cole,” Aidan says.
“You’re welcome.”
“This is Hannah’s daughter, Emily,” he says. “Emily, this is my son, Cole.”
Cole’s eyes stay locked on me. “Your name is Emily?” He smirks. “That’s funny. You strike me more as an ‘Amy.’ I feel like that’s what you’d tell me if we’d met before, isn’t it?”
My cheeks burn.
“You’ll get used to his rudeness,” Aidan says, laughing. “Come on in, let me give you a tour.”
I follow him inside, my mind spinning. But just before I step over the threshold, I glance back.
Cole is still there.
Still watching me.
But the smirk is gone—replaced by something hotter, darker, and far more dangerous.
The house is gorgeous. I’ll give it that. But something about it feels... off.
Warm-toned walls, curated furniture, and just enough coastal charm—driftwood sculptures, pale linen curtains, seashell vases—to look like someone tried to make it feel lived in. But it doesn’t.
It feels like a model home. Pretty, perfect, and soulless.
“Babe, we’ll be in here,” Aidan says, guiding my mom toward the master suite. “And if you ever get mad at me, there’s a guest suite down the hall.”
She giggles like a teenager and stands on her toes to kiss his cheek.
“Is the guest suite where I’ll be staying?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
“Absolutely not.” Aidan shakes his head. “Come on, let me show you upstairs.”
The staircase creaks under our steps. He stops at a white door and pulls out a key like he’s revealing a prize on a game show.
“This is your room.” He flips on the lights. “I told the designer you’re a writer, so she tried to reflect that.”
I step inside.
And stop.
A queen bed sits against a navy accent wall, ivory bedding tucked tight. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf spans one wall, already filled with titles I’ve read and loved—and some I’ve never seen before. A writing desk with gold trim glints in the corner. There’s a tufted chaise by the window, a soft throw tossed over the edge, and a glass lamp shaped like a wave.
