Page 15 of Matched with the Playboy Next Door

“He’s been with, like, so many models,” one of them says, her voice hushed. “There’s a whole section about his exes—apparently, they’re all drop-dead gorgeous.”

“I heard he’s here to ‘take a break’ from city life,” another chimes in, making air quotes with her fingers. “Probably until the next red carpet event.”

They dissolve into giggles, and I turn away, my face burning.

I know I shouldn’t care, but something about the way they talked about him—as if he were a celebrity rather than a person—makes my stomach churn. I didn’t want to believe it, but there it was, in glossy print.Manhattan’s most eligible bachelor? What am I even doing thinking about this guy?

I grab the cereal box and toss it into my basket, my mind spinning. So, this is who Ethan really is. The charming, polished guy who dates models and ends up in tabloids.

The knot in my stomach tightens. Of course, I’d let myself think, even for a second, that he was just some overwhelmed guy trying to start fresh. But clearly, my instinctswere right all along—he’s still that guy. The playboy who always gets what he wants.

By the time I get to the checkout, I’m fuming. I don’t even bother with small talk as I pay, tossing my bags into the cart and heading straight for the exit.

Outside, the cool air hits me, but it doesn’t do much to calm the storm brewing in my head.

Why does it matter? It doesn’t, I tell myself. But the way my chest tightens feels like betrayal. Not by him, but by me.

This is exactly why I don’t let myself get caught up in people like Ethan. It doesn’t matter how civil he’s been lately or how different he seemed when he talked about his family. He’s still just the guy in the tabloid—the one who’s probably laughing at the idea of “small-town life” while he waits for his next big adventure. Like we’re some pitstop on his way to better things.

I grit my teeth, gripping the cart handle tighter.Well, if he thinks I’m going to fall for his charm like everyone else in town, he’s got another thing coming.

As I drive home, the grocery bags rustling in the passenger seat, I can’t stop thinking about those girls in the store.

Why does it bother me so much?

It’s not like I’m interested in Ethan. Heck, up until two weeks ago, I couldn’t even stand to look at him without rolling my eyes. He was a city boy, the guy who blocked my driveway and mowed his lawn at the crack of dawn. So why does hearing about his playboy reputation feel like someone dumped a bucket of ice waterover my head?

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, my chest tightening with something I refuse to name. It’s not like I could know everything about his life just because he moved here. People have pasts. Stories. And sure, his is apparently full of supermodels and flashy headlines, but that’s none of my business.

Still, there’s a nagging thought in the back of my mind, a little voice asking if I ever really stopped to think about who Ethan is beyond the surface. The playful banter, the smirks, the unexpectedly thoughtful moments—how much of that is real, and how much of it is just an act?

“It doesn’t matter,” I mutter aloud, shaking my head. “Getting close to him would only lead to trouble.”

By the time I pull into the driveway, I’ve made up my mind. Staying away from Ethan is the best option. If I let myself get too close, I’ll end up getting dragged into whatever mess follows him.

For the rest of the week, I stick to my plan. Whenever I see him, I find a way to dodge him.

On Monday, I spot him by the mailbox as I’m pulling into the driveway. He’s holding a letter and smiling like he’s about to wave, but I pretend I don’t see him. I grab my phone and act like I’m deep in a very important call, even though the screen is dark.

On Wednesday, I hear his voice floating over the fence while I’m in the garden. He’s talking to someone—I can’t make out the words, but the warm, easy tone of his voice makes me hesitate. For a second, I consider looking over, but I shake my head and go back to weeding.

Every time I see him, I find a reason to look busy. Sorting screws in the hardware store, fake-calling customers, or inspecting the same plant three times in the garden. It’s ridiculous, but somehow, it feels safer than looking at him and wondering what’s real.

I don’t want to like him. It’s safer to keep him at arm’s length, to remind myself he’s just a guy passing through Bardstown. But no matter how hard I try, it’s getting harder to ignore the way he looks at me—as if I’m not just some small-town girl in over her head.

By Friday, even Aunt Dotty notices my antics.

I’m unloading groceries when she steps onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron. She leans against the railing, watching me with her usual patient, knowing smile.

“Sugar,” she says, her tone light, “you’ve been acting strange lately.”

I pause, setting down a bag of apples a little too carefully. My fingers linger on the handle as I avoid her gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do.” She gestures toward the street. “I saw you dodging Ethan the other day. The poor boy looked downright confused when you practically ran the other way.”

I shrug, keeping my voice even. “I’m just busy, that’s all.”

Aunt Dotty hums, unconvinced. “Busy, huh? Funny how you weren’t too busy to talk to him before.”

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