Page 1 of Matched with the Playboy Next Door

CHAPTER 1

ETHAN

Bardstown, Kentucky, isn’t exactly what I’d call home, but it will have to do. The estate I’m moving into stands on the edge of town, a mix of charm and decay. The house is big—too big for one person—but the overgrown lawn and faded shutters remind me why I bought it. It feels like a project, and I need one of those—a place I can rebuild, a place I can make my own.

I lean against the moving truck, squinting at the long driveway. It’s lined with oak trees that cast shadows over the gravel, and for a moment, I think I might actually like it here.

Then I hear the horn.

A loud, impatient blare cuts through the quiet morning air, and I glance over my shoulder. A beat-up red truck sits at the end of the driveway, the driver leaning halfway out thewindow. Her expression is sharp with irritation but there’s something in her rushed movements that speaks more of urgency than anger.

“Hey!” she shouts. “Hey, I’m in a rush—are you planning on moving that thing today, or are we just blocking roads for fun?”

I straighten, taking in the woman glaring at me. She’s wearing a ball cap pulled low over her face, a plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and jeans that look like they’ve seen every type of dirt Bardstown has to offer. Her eyes narrow, and I’m pretty sure she’s daring me to test her patience.

“Good morning to you, too,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Just give me a minute.”

She huffs, crossing her arms. “A minute? I’ve got places to be, city boy.”

City boy.The truck in the driveway completely gives me away with its New York address. Her barb stings more than it should, but I push the thought aside and hold up my hands. “All right, all right. I’ll move it.”

I climb into the cab of the moving truck and start the engine, pulling the massive vehicle off to the side of the driveway. The woman doesn’t wait for an invitation. She presses down on the gas and zooms past me, leaving a cloud of dust in her wake.

I watch her go, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. Feisty. I’ll give her that.

By the time I’m unloading the first box, I hear her truckagain. This time, it’s parked in the driveway next to mine, and she’s stalking toward me.

“You’re the new neighbor, then?” she asks, planting her hands on her hips.

“That depends. Are you always this friendly to your new neighbors, or am I just lucky?”

Her lips twitch like she’s deciding whether to laugh or yell at me. “Sorry if I came off a little harsh earlier—it’s been a morning. I’m Riley,” she says. “And I’m here to set some ground rules.”

“Ground rules?”

“Yeah.” She nods, eyes narrowing. “Like no early-morning construction noise, and please try not to block the path. I don’t mean to sound harsh—I just work odd hours sometimes. I had an urgent meeting this morning and almost missed it trying to get around your parking job. Also, no trash blowing onto my property. And keep your city nonsense to yourself.”

“Got it,” I say, biting back a laugh. “My name is Ethan, by the way. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” she says, turning on her heel. “Don’t think I’m going to be your welcome committee. But… welcome to Bardstown, I guess.”

As she stalks off, I catch a brief, almost hesitant glance over her shoulder before she disappears. Feisty, sure—but I suspect there’s more to her than that.

Maybe Bardstown might not be as quietas I’d imagined.

Istand in the middle of the living room, hands on my hips, surveying the mountain of boxes scattered across the polished hardwood floor. The house is quiet now, the only sound coming from the distant chirp of crickets outside. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos of the moving truck, the honking, and, of course, Riley, my fiery new neighbor.

My lips twitch at the thought of her—her sharp voice, the way she barked at me like I’d personally ruined her day. She’s nothing like the women I grew up around. Those women never raised their voices, always spoke in carefully rehearsed tones, and smiled even when they didn’t mean it.

Maybe she was having a bad day, or maybe that’s just who she is. Either way, she left an impression.

But there’s no time to dwell on Riley or her not-so-warm welcome. I have a house to unpack, and if I’m going to live here, I might as well get started.

I grab the first box, markedKitchen, and carry it toward the sleek, modern counters. Though grand and steeped in Bardstown history, the house has been updated with all the trappings of contemporary luxury. Stainless steel appliances, a wine fridge, marble countertops—everything screams “rich and proper,” the very image of this exclusive estate.

Setting the box down, I pause momentarily, running my fingers along the edge of the counter. This is a far cry from the city life I left behind.

Growing up in my family, appearances were everything: the perfect suits, the perfect house, the perfect family dinner where no one dared mention the elephant in the room. My father built his real estate empire from nothing, and the weight of that legacy has loomed over me for as long as I can remember.

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