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"What about off the ice? Anything I should know about the neighborhood?"

"It's quiet," Ryan said, shrugging.

"There's a coffee shop two blocks east that's solid," Jeremy said. "Decent lattes, and they don't put weird shit in the drinks unless you ask for it. There is a dry cleaner on Beacon which you'll need for your suits. It's the mandatory team dress code for game days and travel. Don't think you can get away without one. There is also a gym outside this community if you want something that isn't at the team's facility. It's clean with decent equipment, but the one at the facility is free. The neighbors mostly keep to themselves, but there is a lot of money here: doctors, lawyers, a couple of tech guys. The only downside is that you'll be the youngest person on the street by about fifteen years."

"Perfect. I'll fit right in."

"You'll fit in fine. Just don't throw any crazy parties for the first month. Let the neighbors get used to seeing your face before you test the noise tolerance."

We cleaned up around ten. The pizza boxes went into the trash, and the empty bottles went back into the cases because I didn't have a recycling bin yet. I walked the guys out the front door. Boston in late August felt nothing like Wyoming in late August. The humidity clung to everything. Sweat gathered on the back of my neck before I'd even stepped out the door, and the air had a weight to it that made breathing feel like a minor physical effort.

Jeremy was halfway to his car, keys spinning around his finger, when I took one step onto the grass to wave goodnight and my foot went out from under me.

I hit the ground hard, back first, the air punching out of my lungs, my elbow cracking against a rock. For half a second, I thought I'd slipped on a wet patch of grass, and then the smell hit me.

Fresh, warm, unmistakable dog shit, smeared across the bottom of my left shoe and now across the back of my shorts and my forearm.

"What the fuck!" I yelled, scrambling to get up, my hand pressing into the grass, and yeah. More of it. The whole patch of lawn near the walkway was a goddamn minefield.

Jeremy doubled over by his car, laughing so hard that no sound was coming out. His shoulders shook and his face turned red, while he braced one hand on the hood for support. Ryan had stopped walking and was staring at me, also laughing and Matthew was already in his car, but I could see his shoulders shaking through the windshield.

"It's not funny." I wiped my hand on the grass, which only made it worse. "Who the hell lets their dog shit in someone else's yard?"

I looked up at the house next door. Lights were on in the front windows, warm and golden against the dark, and parked in the driveway was an SUV with a bumper sticker that said my dog is smarter than your honor student. I'd seen it when I'd driven through the neighborhood tonight.

Big dog owner. Right next door.

The embarrassment converted to anger the way it always did with me. Fast, clean, a straight line from humiliation to fury.

"Clean up, rookie." Jeremy finally caught his breath, wiping his eyes. "And maybe introduce yourself to the neighbor tomorrow. Diplomatically."

"I'm going over there right now." I said, getting up off the ground.

"You're covered in shit, man. Literally. Maybe don't make your first impression while you're wearing it."

I looked down at myself. He had a point. Smears covered my shorts, streaks marked my forearm, and my left shoe was ruined.

"Sleep on it," Ryan said from his car, his voice was calm enough to cut through the anger I was feeling. "Handle it tomorrow when you've had time to think and you've calmed down."

Jeremy and Ryan drove off, both still laughing. I could hear Jeremy howling through his closed windows as he pulled out of the driveway. Matthew gave me a wave, and I could tell he was trying not to lose it until he was out of sight.

I stood on my front lawn in the dark, with dog shit on my shoes and my ego somewhere on the ground next to it. I scraped my shoe on the curb, went inside, stripped in the laundry room, and stood in the shower until the hot water ran out.

CHAPTER TWO

LILLAH

I'd been staring at my curtains for the past twenty minutes, standing in my living room with a glass of pinot noir in one hand and my phone in the other. I was trying to figure out exactly what it was about these curtains that bothered me. The fabric was fine. The hardware was brushed nickel, which matched the light fixtures I'd put in the week I moved in. The length couldn't have been more perfect; they were kissing the floor the way they were supposed to.

Yet, something about them was wrong. Most people wouldn't notice. They'd walk through rooms never noticing the undertone of a fabric was fighting with the undertone of the floor, creating a visual argument that would make an entire space feel off. Most people didn't lie awake at night thinking about the difference between warm and cool ivory. I wasn't most people; I was an interior designer, and I was using my personal home as part of my portfolio. These curtains, however, were going to drive me out of my mind until I replaced them or figured out what the problem was.

I took a sip of wine and opened the Pottery Barn app and scrolled through drapery panels. Maybe this room needs something warmer, perhaps a soft wheat tone, or a Belgian flax in natural that might pull the room together with the white oak floors.

Cooper lifted his head from the couch and looked at me. He was a Great Dane, a hundred and forty pounds of muscle who took up more than half the couch and didn't care. His ears perked up as if he were waiting for me to explain myself. He had this way of watching me that made it feel like he understood exactly what I was saying, even when I was talking about curtain fabric.

"Don't look at me like that," I said. "The curtains are wrong, and you know it."

He set his head back down, his tail thumping against the cushion.