Page 11 of Stuck with the Hero Next Door

I laughed, slumping back in the booth. “Is everyone here this involved in everyone else’s business?”

“Yes. But we also bring casseroles when things go wrong, so it evens out.”

Belle swooped by with the check and two paper napkins with that cartoon cow printed on them that somehow felt like souvenirs. She winked at me as she set the bill down, then stage-whispered, “He never brings girls here.”

I blinked. Levi cleared his throat. “Thanks, Belle.”

She just grinned and bustled away, humming something suspiciously like “Chapel of Love.”

I turned back to him slowly. “So. Never brings girls here?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Technically true. Will’s is sacred ground. You don’t risk it on bad company.”

“Oh, so I’m honored.”

“You should be. You passed the cornbread test.”

I leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Is that the same test for everyone, or is it just something you made up on the spot?”

“A gentleman never reveals his methods.”

He said it with that slow, easy grin that had a way of making the air feel warmer. I found myself smiling back.

Outside, I could see Everwood slowing down for the night—families piling into pickups, kids running ahead with backpacks slung loose, the streetlamps flickering on like someone flipping the town’s bedtime switch.

“You know,” I said quietly, “this place—it’s nothing like I expected. I thought it’d feel...smaller.”

“It grows on you.”

“It really does.” I looked out the window, watching a couple walk past hand-in-hand. “It’s kind of ridiculous how nice everyone is.”

“Give it time. The goats are less charming.”

I snorted. “If I stay long enough to meet a goat, something’s gone very wrong with my plan.”

He tilted his head. “Or very right.”

I didn’t have an answer for that—not one I was ready to say out loud.

So instead, I reached for the check. “I’m leaving the tip.”

He shook his head and smiled again, quiet and knowing.

We stepped outside into the Everwood evening, a small-town night that smelled like pine trees and BBQ from the smokers out back. The street was quiet, lamplight pooling in golden circles on the sidewalk, and somewhere down the block, wind chimes played an off-key tune like a backup singer with attitude.

Levi held the truck door open. “If you fall asleep on the way back, I won’t judge.”

“It’s two blocks,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“Three, technically,” he replied, like it was a matter of great municipal importance.

I laughed as he rounded the truck and slid in behind the wheel. The engine started with a familiar rumble, and we pulled out of the lot just as a pair of teenagers rode past on one bike—one pedaling, the other eating a popsicle as if it were a formal job.

“I can’t decide if this town is adorable or terrifying.”

“Both,” he said. “We once had a birthday parade for a rooster. Mayor led it on foot.”

“You’re making that up.”