Page 76 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

Maybe that’s why, after the umpteenth load of laundry and the ceremonial midweek fridge purge, I couldn’t bring myself to relax. There was only so much baseboard to scrub before you had to face your own thoughts. So I sat at the kitchen table, laptop open, determined to catch up on emails before the weekend’s wedding requests started rolling in. My inbox was a graveyard of vendor spam, discount offers, and newsletters I’d forgotten I’d signed up for.

Then, buried between a Pinterest notification and an update from the preschool, was a message that made my stomach drop.

It was from Mary Simpson, who was basically my mentor at Willow & White Events, a boutique events company in Seattle. I worked there for four years before I had Mav and Tanner didn’t think I should be working on the weekends with a baby, he made me feel like I was not putting my family first, so I quit and got a nine-to-five job in customer service, which I hated. I was surprised to hear from Mary since I knew, from following her on social media, she’d moved to Colorado.

The subject line was simple: Opportunity—Director of Special Events. The body of the email detailed a job offer outlining compensation and a financial package that not only had a base salary of nearly double what I was making at Lockhart Ranch, it also included an annual performance bonus, a signing and relocation bonus of twenty grand, and a tiered incentive bonus. It offered executive perks, and benefits including a wellness and lifestyle stipend, travel discounts, and continuing education opportunities with compensation. It detailed a work-life structure that appealed to me as a single mom, including staffing support and a flexible schedule policy. And it was for The Whitmore Hotel, which wasn’t just a luxury five star hotel, it was named as one of Forbes Five Star honorees and held a AAA Five Diamond distinction.

This job was perfect in every way, except it was in Denver. I’d just relocated from Seattle to Valentine’s Bay, I wasn’t sure another move would be the best thing for Mav. But he was young and resilient so I couldn’t dismiss the opportunity because of that factor alone.

I stared at the screen, my heart beating double-time. I did the math—six figures, generous bonus, paid relocation, a signing bonus that could pay off my SUV and my credit card debt. The salary was more than I’d ever imagined making. I could sock away savings, put Maverick in the best schools, never worry about my card being declined at the grocery store again.

But as I read and reread the offer, something else crept in—a sense of dread, the low-level hum of impending doom that always accompanied big decisions. If I said yes, I’d be leaving Valentine Bay. I’d be pulling Maverick out of the little world he loved, away from his brand-new friends and the new rescue horse that had just arrived at the ranch, which Dawson allowed Mav to name. Mav thought about it all of two seconds before dubbing him Cowboy. Cowboy and Maverick had developed a very special bond. I’d be walking away from Dean and everything that, for the first time in forever, felt like it might actually fit.

I closed the laptop, pressing my palms to the lid like I could trap the offer inside and make it go away. But my mind wouldn’t let it rest. I played out every scenario, trying to find the “right” thing to do. If things with Dean ended, where would that leave me? My job, my home, my son’s happiness—they all seemed suddenly, terrifyingly dependent on this place, these people. On one stubborn, taciturn rancher who still hadn’t said the word “girlfriend” out loud despite claiming to love me, but who had built so many little rituals into our lives that I wasn’t sure I remembered how to function without them.

What if I was making the same mistake all over again? What if this time I couldn’t just pick up the pieces and move on?

Not sure what the answer was, I did what I always did when I was confused, stressed, or anxious, I cleaned. After scrubbing the countertop for the fourth time that morning, the lemon-scented cleaner began to sting my skin. I considered texting Dean, but I knew he’d see through me in half a second. I didn’t want him to know how much I was waffling, how deep my fear ran. Instead, I tried to kill time by alphabetizing the pantry, which is how I discovered Maverick’s hidden stash of marshmallows behind the quinoa. I envied his certainty that everything good could be preserved for later, just in case.

I was deep in the spiral—half-convinced I was about to uproot our lives, half-convinced I’d sabotage my own happiness out of habit—when a knock at the door startled me out of my reverie. For a second, hope bloomed in my chest. Maybe Dean had come over early, maybe he’d sensed I was one bad decision away from hiding under the kitchen table, and he’d walk in with a solution. Or at least with more brownies.

But when I opened the door, it wasn’t Dean. It was the last person I expected to see on my porch, hands shoved in his pockets, all charming smile and familiar cologne.

Tanner. I hadn’t heard from him since the arcade seven days ago. I’d nearly convinced myself he’d left, for his next adventure. There was a unique kind of dread that comes from seeing your past—your actual, walking, talking past—standing on your porch. Not in a metaphorical, “your mistakes will haunt you” kind of way, but in a very literal, “the man you once swore you’d never speak to again is now two feet from your weathered doormat” kind of way.

Tanner wore his usual—designer shirt, unnecessarily expensive sneakers, and aviators that would have looked absurd on anyone else. On him, it worked, but only if you’d never met him in a context where he was trying to convince a judge he was actually responsible enough to see his own kid on weekends. The sight of him, arms crossed like the world owed him a favor, made me want to tell him to grow up.

“Mav’s not here,” I managed, my voice flat as the tide at low ebb.

I braced myself—Tanner rarely did anything without a motive, and it was almost never a good one.

He shrugged, shifting his weight in a way designed to draw my eyes to the way his shirt stretched over his chest. “I know. We need to talk,” he stated firmly.

Great, so this wasn’t about Maverick. This was about me. Which meant I could just tell him to fuck off.

I stayed in place as he glanced over my shoulder, into the house, probably checking to see if Dean was there. He wasn’t. I wanted to slam the door on him, but I also knew that if I did, he’d just come back, like a bad rash.

“Fine. You have five minutes,” I relented.

He stepped past me and the moment I shut the door behind us, sealing myself inside with Tanner and his storm cloud energy, I regretted it. Even the gentle hush of the house felt tense, the silence was alive, thick enough to stick to the roof of my mouth. Tanner didn’t even bother with the awkward stand-and-twiddle at the entryway, he prowled straight to the kitchen, trailing the expensive scent of cinnamon and something muskier, a cologne I’d once picked out for him before I understood that nothing about our relationship was real, it was all for show.

He moved around my kitchen with a proprietary ease that made my skin crawl. “Where’s the kid?” he asked.

The kid? You mean your son? I thought, but kept to myself. There was no reason to engage him at all. I just wanted him to say his piece, then leave me alone.

“He’s at school,” I said matter-of-factly. “Say what you came to say, Tanner. I’m on a schedule.”

Tanner’s smile faded, replaced by a look I never trusted, because it meant he was about to pretend he cared. “I know things haven’t been great between us, but you’re the mother of my child, I’m always going to have your back. I will always protect you.”

Oh boy, he was laying it on thick. That only made me more concerned.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a yellowed envelope and held it out to me.

I didn’t take it. “What is it?”

“Just read it.” He set it on the counter between us, then stepped back, palms up. “I swear, I’m not here to start drama. I just…found this in my stuff, and I thought you should have it.”

His delivery was so earnest, so un-Tanner, that for a second my suspicion wobbled. I snagged the envelope and turned it over. My name was scrawled across the front in a handwriting I recognized instantly, it was Uncle Walter’s. I peeled the flap back and slid out two sheets of lined paper, creased and worn at the fold.