“Already experienced that with my delightful neighbor.” I grin, nodding to the house next door.
“Oh, you’re not special. She’s just that way to everyone,” Dawson says.
Emmy grabs the empty grocery bag and folds it up. “One piece of advice? This town loves matchmaking. Especially in the fall. Consider yourself warned.”
I glance out the kitchen window into the house next door, and notice the blinds snap shut like someone was watching us.
The neighborhood spy is already gathering intelligence.
“I’m here for a fresh start anyway,” I say. “Avoiding attention.”
But as I look at the house next door, I can’t shake the feeling that staying out of the spotlight might be impossible in this small town.
CHAPTER 3
NEESHA
Islide the last pennies into my hand and add them to my total tips for the day at the cafe. Even with my hourly wage and a huge tip from Mr. Forearms, I still am going to be tight on rent this month.
It’s going to take some sort of miracle to help me now—a winning lottery ticket, a viral TikTok about my cupcakes, or maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and discover my mom’s medical debts magically paid themselves off.
I tuck the tips into my purse, locking up the bookstore for the night. Guess that means I’ll be baking until 2 a.m., which my landlady’s going tolove,considering she already gave me the stink eye for not having her coffee ready on time this morning.
The walk home is short but stunning, with crisp air, glowing porch lights, and pumpkins smiling from every stoop.
This is why I love Maple Falls. Because even when my personal life looks like a rejected Hallmark movie script, the town still feels magical. And maybe some of that magic brought the mystery handyman who left a tip that might actually save me this month.
It reminds me that somehow, things always comethrough—just like they did for my mom, even when the odds were stacked against her.
I still don’t know how she worked two jobs to keep us afloat after my father bailed on us, deciding that he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood or married life, or how she maintained faith that things would get better even when money was tight. She held on to hope until the very end—even going into surgery, she was making plans for after her recovery, about finally taking that pottery class she’d always wanted to try. When she suddenly passed away from complications three days later, I felt like an unmoored boat, spinning in shock at how quickly everything had changed. One day we were laughing about her being able to eat real food again, the next day she was gone.
When I finally reach the outdoor stairs to my second-floor apartment, I sprint up quickly, hoping to avoid my landlady tonight. My dog, Henry, is waiting at the door, his bottom half wiggling furiously.
“Hey, buddy,” I sigh, ruffling his ears. He does a happy little circle dance around my feet. “Cupcake baking first. Walk second.”
I plop down on my ancient couch and open my laptop. It probably seems desperate to canvas the neighborhood with flyers at night like some sort of cupcake dealer, but I need orders this weekend or I’ll be choosing between bills or food.Again.
I find a cute template online, tweak it until it looks a little more professional, then start printing while I whip up another batch of cupcakes. It’s all muscle memory at this point—thanks to the baking lessons Mom gave me, both of us covered in flour and eating the misshapen ones at the end. After she died so suddenly, it became the only way I could still feel close to her. Now I could probably frost a cupcake in my sleep—a skill I might need to develop at this rate.
Once the cupcakes are out of the oven and my flyers are printed, I grab Henry’s leash. “Okay, boy, ready for some covert advertising?”
Under cover of darkness, Henry and I tuck flyers into mail slots. It’s not until I reach the house next door that I notice something different: The lights are on, which is weird, because this place has been empty for weeks. I’m halfway through sliding a flyer into the mail slot next to the door when someone walks past the window.
And it’shim. In flannel pajama pants. And no shirt.
I freeze like a deer caught in headlights—or more accurately, like a woman caught spying on her ridiculously attractive new neighbor.
Sweet mother of all that is good and caffeinated, when did handymen start looking likethat? He’s got the kind of chest that makes you understand why romance novel covers exist.
And I’m just standing here. Gawking. Like a creep.
He turns when the mail slot snaps shut, and our eyes meet through the window.
Oh, no.
I recoil so fast I trip over poor Henry, who yelps as I stumble backward and land on my butt in the middle of the porch like the graceful swan I am.
“Smooth, Neesha,” I mutter to myself. “Maybe tomorrow you can trip over your own feet for an encore.”
