Do not go to the window.
I am a twenty-four-year-old woman with a college degree, a job, and enough self-respect to avoid spying on the neighbor.
I last four seconds, then I hurry to the side window.
Zain has just stepped out of his department truck, leaving the driver’s door open behind him.
My stomach performs a small, humiliating flip.
He is still wearing dark department pants and a black T-shirt stretched across shoulders that have been interfering with my peace since the day I moved in. His dark hair looks slightly mussed, and even from here I can see the exhaustion in the way he pauses beside the open door and rolls one shoulder.
Thirty-eight.
I know because in a town the size of Whispering Pines, a woman can learn almost anything without technically asking. One innocent question to Joyce about whether the fire chief had always been that grumpy somehow came back with his age, his former military career, and a warning that the expression on my face was becoming embarrassing.
Fourteen years older than me.
Fire chief.
Ex-military.
Quiet enough that every word feels important when he finally decides to use one.
I know all the reasons I should stop wanting him.
My body has reviewed the evidence and rejected the recommendation.
Zain shuts the truck door.
His head turns.
Toward my house.
I drop beneath the window so fast that my knee slams into the edge of the small side table.
“Ow!”
Pain shoots up my leg. I fling both hands out to catch my balance, forgetting I am holding a bra until it leaves my fingers and sails over my shoulder.
I hear a softwhumpbehind me.
For one second, I remain crouched on the floor with both hands pressed to my knee.
Then I look back.
My white bra is hanging from the lampshade.
I stare at it.
“Why am I not surprised?”
Outside, gravel crunches beneath footsteps.
My head snaps toward the window.
No.
I carefully rise just high enough to peek over the sill.
