Page 14 of Matched with the Playboy Next Door

“Pretty much,” she says, fiddling with the bottle cap. “After my parents passed, Aunt Dotty took me in. She’s been everything to me—parent, mentor, occasional pain in the neck.”

Her voice softens when she talks about Dotty, and I feel a pang of something I can’t quite name.

“When I was a kid, Aunt Dotty would sit with me for hours, teaching me how to plant flowers in neat little rows.She made sure I always felt like I belonged, even when everything else felt upside down.”

“She seems like a good person,” I say.

“She is,” Riley replies, her gaze distant. “She’s the glue that holds everything together.”

There’s a pause, and I realize I’m seeing a different side of her—a quieter, more thoughtful Riley that she keeps carefully tucked away. Hearing her talk about Dotty, there’s a softness in her voice I haven’t heard before. It’s like she’s letting me peek through a crack in the armor she always wears.

“Well,” she says, standing up and brushing off her jeans, her sarcasm sliding back into place. “At least now I know you’re not completely helpless. Just… mostly.”

“Thanks,” I say, laughing. “I’ll take that as a win.”

She starts walking back toward her truck but pauses at the edge of the driveway.

“Don’t let it go to your head—or your hedges,” she calls over her shoulder, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

As I watch her leave, I can’t help but grin. This town, this life—it’s messy and unfamiliar. But maybe, just maybe, it’s exactly what I needed.

CHAPTER 6

RILEY

It’s been two weeks since that conversation with Ethan on his porch, and somehow, we’ve managed to avoid any shouting matches. For once, there’s no lawnmower at dawn, no sarcastic jabs, and no need for me to call him city boy like it’s a curse.

I’d even go so far as to say we’re getting along.

The few times we’ve bumped into each other—him leaving for a run or me unloading groceries—he’s actually been… decent. Civil. Maybe even funny. I hate to admit it, but I might’ve been wrong about him.

Not that I’m telling Aunt Dotty or Mia that.

Every time they see us exchange even a polite “hello,” they start nudging each other like we’re starring in some rom-com. Last night at dinner, Aunt Dotty actually referred tous as having a “love-hate relationship.” I nearly choked on my mashed potatoes.

“Love-hate, my foot,” I’d muttered, ignoring Mia’s knowing smirk.

It’s unsettling, really—this sudden shift in how I see him. He’s still city boy to me, but now there’s something else. Something I don’t want to name.

But today, I don’t have time to dwell on any of that. I’m in a rush, and the grocery store is packed—half the town must’ve decided to shop at the same time. I grab a basket, making a mental note to stick to the essentials: milk, bread, eggs, and whatever else Aunt Dotty added to the list this morning.

As I dart down the cereal aisle, I hear them—three girls, maybe a few years younger than me, huddled near the checkout line. Their voices are low, but their excitement is impossible to miss.

“Oh my gosh, he’s even hotter in person,” one of them says, holding up what looks like a local magazine.

“Right? Did you see this article? He’s dated, like, half of New York’s models,” another one adds, flipping a page.

I freeze, my hand hovering over a box of cereal.

“Who are you talking about?” the third girl asks, peering over their shoulders.

“Ethan Wilson,” the first girl replies, her voice dripping with admiration. “You know, the guy who moved into the old Martin place. Look!” She points to a glossyphoto on the page.

Against my better judgment, I step closer, craning my neck to get a glimpse of the magazine page she’s showing off. And there he is—Ethan, looking annoyingly polished in a tailored suit, leaning casually against some sleek car.

The headline reads:Manhattan’s Most Eligible Bachelor Finds New Playground?

I blink, feeling a strange knot twist in my stomach as the girls keep talking.

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