The afternoon sun pours through the towering windows of my grandfather’s mansion, stretching long shadows across the polished wooden floors. The house is still too much for me—too big, too empty, too full of ghosts I didn’t invite. I’m trying to make it feel like a home, but it still reeks of legacy and expectations. Neither of which I’m sure I can handle.
Will I get to keep it?
Obviously not because I’ve yet to find a suitor. Someone who’ll be okay marrying me, signing an ironclad prenup, and . . . well I’m not sure what other qualifications he should have. This would be a great time to call Aiden and discuss it but so far I haven’t told her about the clause.
God knows she’d jump at the opportunity to make a list of “eligible men,” most of them disasters waiting to happen wanting a piece of my inheritance. Love her, but she has a special talent for picking losers. Not that I’m much better.
The knock comes again, more insistent this time.
I glance at the door, a frown tugging at my lips. It’s probably someone from the town—the kind of person who shows up unannounced with a casserole and an opinion about how I should be running Maple Haven. People love to do that around here.
With a sigh, I set down the vase I’ve been rearranging for the third time today and make my way to the door. I yank it open, already preparing my polite-but-dismissive smile.
But it’s not a townie standing there. Instead, I’m greeted byhim.
Ledger Timberbridge.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, looking unfairly good in dark jeans and a button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows. His sharp jawline is slightly scruffy, like he hasn’t bothered shaving, and his stupid blue eyes lock onto mine with that same infuriating confidence that makes my stomach twist.
And then I notice what he’s holding.
In one hand, a bouquet of flowers—wildflowers, not the overly polished florist kind. In the other, a basket filled with strawberries, chocolates, and a bottle of champagne.
I blink. “Are you stalking me?”
He scoffs, like the question offends him. “Excuse me?”
“How do you know I live here?” I cross my arms, already on edge.
“Small towns,” he says with an irritating shrug. “Everyone knows where your grandfather lived. It’s obvious you’d be here.”
Ugh. Of course. Birchwood Springs has better intel than the CIA. It’s a better search engine than Google. You stop one person on the street for directions, and they’ll give you a full town history plus a breakdown of everyone’s personal lives in under a minute.
“What do you want, Ledger?”
His grin deepens, infuriatingly smug. “I brought you Italy.” He holds up the basket like it’s some grand offering. “Thought we’d pick up where we left off. I’m hoping this time you won’t run away.”
I blink, my brain short-circuiting for a moment. Italy. Nope. I don’t want Italy with his dares and my . . .
“If you know who I am, how could you possibly proposition me?” I screech, instinctively taking a step back.
He doesn’t get to enjoy anything—not with me. Not when he’s my cousin, for God’s sake, and probably here to take what’s mine. No. Absolutely not.
His brows furrow in confusion. “Proposition? Galeana—can I call you Ana?”
“Galeana. The name isGaleana,” I say with a warning. Only people close to me are allowed to give me a nickname.
Aiden and Mom called me Gale. Chase called me Gal—not the best—and some people had called me Ana. But this guy, my cousin who by the way wants to take away my inheritance, should call me Ms. Monroe and stay three hundred feet away from me.
“Okay,Galeana,” he says, emphasizing my name. “I brought you Italy. We were getting to know each other, having fun, and boom. You disappeared in the middle of the night.”
He’s wrong, it was early in the morning but I’m not going to correct him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
His grin widens, and he steps inside without waiting for an invitation, setting the basket on the entryway table. “Liar,” he says lightly, plucking a strawberry from the basket. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
I glare at him, my skin prickling as his presence fills the massive foyer. This house is enormous—an actual mansion—and yet, somehow, he makes it feel smaller. Like he’s claiming space just by breathing.
“You can’t just barge into my house,” I say, closing the door behind him. “What if I was busy?”
