of her emotions for the past two hours, who just so happened to be her new neighbor.
They say that 95 percent of the time the first impression you have of a person is right.
And in this case, she had been dead, dead wrong.
Chapter 2
Chip
Sixteen hundred square feet of 1906 red oak flooring ready to be restored to all its herringbone-bordered perfection. Twenty-two windows—three of which were cracked—ready to be torn out and replaced with double-pane, energy-efficient, crystal-clear glass. One tired but nonetheless chugging along oil furnace. Two Pepto Bismol–pink tubs. Fourteen hideous green cabinets begging to be thrown into the dumpster that was making its way up Main Street this very moment.
One incredible, panoramic view of the frosted peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
And one mysterious fairy he’d had the surprising pleasure of meeting on a nondescript staircase, now staring at him.
Granted, this stare wasn’t entirely of the positive kind. She was frowning. And still caked from forehead to throat in pea soup–green makeup, matched by a stunning green dress (also the object of a recent coffee spill, it seemed) that enhanced her striking emerald eyes.
A discreet cough in the back of his mind brought him back into line.
Right.
He had a girlfriend. A terrific, wonderful girlfriend.
Yes, this woman had striking green eyes, but he could’ve noticed that about anyone. It was a perfectly harmless, meaningless observation.
Just like he’d noticed how nice that green dress looked on her, so very appropriately her color. Good for her. It was hard to find such color-complementary clothing these days.
Well, whatever the cause of the frown directed his way, he felt himself rising to the challenge to turn her frown around. And he could do that. In fact, he had done that, just two hours before. His behavior was perfectly appropriate, with or without Ashleigh—his wonderful, steady, and also very color-coordinated girlfriend.
He could start by bringing up the happy coincidence that they were now neighbors. Mention how coincidental it was that they had both left the theatre and followed one another here.
Maybe the topic of his driving skills wasn’t the best to bring up in a moment like this. Fact was, he could hardly see her little green Subaru from the cab of the lifted work truck he’d bought off Craigslist this morning. It had over three hundred thousand miles, oil and antifreeze leaks, burned-out turn signals, no air, and so many unsavory bumper stickers even the Marion jailhouse citizens would be scandalized. And the way the gas and brake pedal jolted him every time his boot so much as graced the pedal . . . well, it wasn’t his best look.
He’d do better, much better, to opt for a general statement.
About her green makeup, which she clearly had no qualms about wearing in public.
About the house.
The neighborhood.
The surprising moment they’d shared behind the theatre.
The way he’d stood there alone on the platform after they’d said their good-byes, then how he found himself racing to the front to get back inside. The way he’d managed to soft-soap the elderly usher with a few sweet words to get back into his seat before she delivered her line. The absolutely epic two-word line. Then how their eyes met, as he felt himself hoping so much they would. And then—
No. The neighborhood. He’d stick with a nice, safe topic.
The neighborhood.
He opened his mouth as a rumble down the street drew his attention away.
And there was his opener.
“That’ll be my dumpster,” Chip said, grinning. “Funny to see you again. Becca?”
Whatever level her frown had been at before, it was now a ten. “Bree.”
“Right. Bree.”
At a honk, Chip turned his attention to the roll-off truck now in view and his friend Andy behind the wheel.
Bree. It was important to remember his neighbors’ names. Bree.
He began striding toward the road, arms waving above his head.
Andy was a man of labor, a man like him. Except he lived on a houseboat on Holston River, and his main Saturday-night entertainment was sharing Cheetos with the fish.
His forehead carried the permanent ripple of four waves stacked upon one another, racing toward the shore of his receding hairline. And when he was disgruntled, the one closest to his eyebrows grew like a tsunami threatening to spill onto his heavy, brooding lashes. As the truck approached, he could see Andy had miraculously managed to grow a fifth wave across his forehead.
The truck squealed, shuddered, and gave a huff as the air brakes released in front of his house. Andy threw the door open. All five-feet-two of