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Chapter one
Juliette Monroe
It’snotstalkingifthey’re your neighbor, I think to myself as I peer through the slats of my blinds. A tall man with dark hair slides out of a sleek, pitch-black sports car. I follow his movements, my eyebrows raising in appreciation. I’ve heard men frown on being called beautiful, but that’s exactly what he is.
He opens the door to the storage container that was delivered yesterday–I know this because I was spying then too–and lugs a large cardboard box out. He’s wearing a long-sleeve black t-shirt, but I can tell by the fit that he’s hiding all sorts of muscles beneath the material. The scowl on his face has me tipping my head to the side. Maybe he doesn’t like moving? He does seem to be doing everything by himself. I remember doing that same thing a few years ago. I was probably scowling too.
I wish he would start moving furniture. Since I don’t have x-ray vision, I can’t tell what’s inside cardboard boxes. But Icandecide what kind of man he is based on his furniture, as one does.
“I bet everything he owns is modern and black,” I tell Murphy, my golden retriever, while still staring out at the ridiculously attractive man stalking across his yard like he’s mad at it for existing at all. Which is quite sad, considering how lovely our little neighborhood is.
Peach Hollow is a small residential community situated around a lake in Georgia. On this side of the lake, there are three two-bedroom cottages set in a row. On the opposite side are six more cottages, then there’s a subdivision hidden beyond the tree line with a walking path that leads to the lakeshore. The new neighbor’s home is in the middle of our row of cottages, mine is on the right, and Mr. Kipton lives on the left. Our houses are close enough that you could have a conversation from one back porch to another while watching the sunrise over the lake.
Not that I would know, because my last neighbor, Darren, worked odd hours and never spoke to me. And Mr. Kipton is a grouchy hermit who says he’s too old and tired to watch the sunrise.
I gasp. “That looks like an antique end table!” My knees shift on the cushion beneath me as I try to get a better look at what he’s carrying. Murphy lets out a low but loud ruff when the blinds rustle.
The man’s head whips toward my house and I squeak, falling down onto the couch. The brown plaid skirt I’m wearing flops up with the movement and I quickly jerk it down as if the mysterious neighbor can see me through my walls. Murphy huffs from his dog bed and I roll my head over to look at him.
“Don’t judge me. You know Peach Hollow never gets any new people. I’m desperate to talk to someone below the age of seventy-five.”
Murphy seems unaffected by my plight for youthful human interaction. It’s my own fault, really. I chose Peach Hollow because it embodied safety and peace at a time I needed it most. At the time I didn’t care that there were no people my age, except the occasional grandkids who visited. I just cared about being in an environment opposite of what I was in before.
Now, years later, I work from home running my Etsy business selling invitation templates and stationery …. and have no friends.None. Well, except my best friend Caroline. She lives hundreds of miles away though, so we only see each other through video chat. I could move, but the thought of starting over again scares me, so here I stay, bored and in dire need of conversation.
The rumble of a truck makes me stiffen, memories of times past flitting through my mind for a moment before I can tamp them down. Closing my eyes, I listen and hear footsteps, then two male voices having a conversation I can’t quite make out.
“I think we should check the mail,” I tell Murphy, even though I know the mailman, Leonard, came and went already with nothing for me. But my neighbor wasn’t here when the mail truck came by, so he wouldn’t know that I’d already gone out and checked.
I run my fingertips through my hair and then smooth down my cream sweater. Even though I rarely see anyone but myself in the mirror each day, I still like to dress nice. Growing up, I couldn’t wear what I liked, so now I take advantage of every freedom I have.
The bite of January air hits me as soon as I open my door and I tuck my arms around myself to brace for the cold. My outfit isn’t exactly conducive to spending any more than a few minutes outside.
Murphy trots dutifully beside me as I walk to the end of my driveway. I don’t look to my right even once, for fear of drawing more attention to myself. But when I get to my mailbox, I angle my body toward my neighbor’s house and try to sneak a glance while pretending to check the mail.
The man from earlier meets my gaze as he walks out of the cottage and beams at me, waving as if we were lifelong friends. I blink in surprise at the contrast between his earlier scowl and now. I give a tentative wave back and open my mouth to say hello, but the greeting dies on my lips when a carbon copy of the man I’m waving to walks out of the cottage.
Twins. It’s then that I begin to catalog the differences between the two. One is smiling and the other scowling. One has artfully messy hair while the other has shorter, tamed hair. They’re both wearing the exact same black shirt though, which is odd. I thought most twins abandoned dressing similarly once they exited grade school. Or at least, the few sets of twinsIknow did. Scowly twin looks me over. Then, without so much as a nod in my direction, he disappears into the storage container.
“Sorry about him!” Smiley twin yells across the yard. “He gets nervous around beautiful women.”
My face heats at his forward compliment.
“Grayson!” Scowly twin barks and I duck my head, giggling. “If you’re here to help,help. If not, leave.”
Grayson winks at me then goes to help his brother carry in a gorgeous apothecary cabinet. I walk slowly back to my front door, letting Murphy sniff around the yard to buy me some time. They don’t seem to struggle at all carrying the large antique by themselves, made known by the fact that Grayson is chattering as if they were carrying an empty cardboard box. His brother says nothing, but I don’t think it’s because of overexertion.
I’m forced to walk inside when Murphy paws at the door. If I don’t let him in, he’ll start to whine and draw attention. My living room is nice and warm when I return, making me aware of how cold it is outside. I was too distracted by the twins to notice.
The differences between the two brothers were interesting, to say the least. My new neighbor does not seem to be a people person, but his taste in furniture was surprising and there’s just something about him that makes me want to get to know him more. Maybe that’s just the loneliness talking, though.
“You can do this, Juliette,” I coach myself in front of my gilded mirror. “All you have to do is go over there, give him the plant, and introduce yourself. Then you can run back to your hobbit hole and overthink the entire interaction.”
I pull a face and groan. I havegotto start giving myself better pep talks. This is what happens when you live alone for too long–your awkwardness grows and multiplies like a weird fungus.
My hands tighten around the tea tin I turned into a planter and I start toward the door. He might not be a plant person, but when I made cookies for Darren to welcome him to the neighborhood he said he was allergic to chocolate. I told him that was sad, which probably wasn’t the best thing to say. He didn’t speak to me much after that. So, I decided to gift my scowly neighbor a basil plant.
I fling open the door and march across my yard before I can talk myself out of it. I’ve already done that twice in the last three days since he moved in. My brown loafers click on his driveway, the usually peaceful silence of Peach Hollow now feeling ominous. After taking a deep breath, I knock on his door, then take a step back and try to look more confident than I feel.
