Page 2 of Matched with the Playboy Next Door

For years, I did everything I was supposed to do. I wore the tailored suits, worked the endless hours, and shook hands with men I didn’t trust, all to uphold the Wilson name. I was the dutiful son, the heir to my father’s empire.

But the truth is, I never wanted it.

I glance around the house; its grandeur is a quiet rebellion against the life I was expected to lead. Buying this estate in Bardstown wasn’t just about escaping the city—it was about escaping them: my father, my mother, their expectations, and the suffocating grip of their approval.

The final straw came last month at one of those glittering black-tie galas my parents love to throw. Dad introduced me to yet another business partner’s daughter, a perfect blonde with a perfect pedigree. She was everything he thought I needed in a wife, someone who could fit seamlessly into our world of champagne toasts and carefully curated power plays.

That night, I felt like I was drowning. I spent the entire evening faking smiles and polite conversation, all the while feeling like I was losing pieces of myself.

The next morning, I put in my notice at Wilson & Co. Real Estate and told myfather I was done.

“You’re walking away from everything I built for you,” he said, his voice calm but laced with disappointment.

“No, Dad,” I replied. “I’m walking toward something that’s mine.”

I used my share of the trust fund to buy this place—a sprawling estate in a quiet town where no one knows or cares about the Wilson family.

Grabbing a box markedLiving Room, I carry it toward the fireplace. The house may be over the top, but for the first time in years, I feel like I’m exactly where I need to be. Even now, standing in the quiet of my new home, there’s a peace here I didn’t expect. It’s not just the town; it’s the idea of slowing down, of stepping off the treadmill I’ve been on for years.

The life I left behind wasn’t mine. This one might not be simple, but at least it’s mine.

I’ve just started unpacking the kitchen box when my phone buzzes on the counter. The screen lights up with a name I know too well.

Mia.

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose before answering. “What now, Mia?”

“What now?” she echoes mockingly. “Is that how you greet your beloved cousin? Ethan, darling, you’re a country boy now. Where’s the Southern charm?”

“You’re confusing me with someone who grew up south of the Bronx,” I reply, smirking. “What’s up?”

“What’s up is that I’ve been dying to hear how Bardstown is treating you,” she says, her tone turning conspiratorial. “How’s the estate? Have you managed to alienate the locals yet, or are you saving that for week two?”

“I might’ve already checked that box,” I admit, pulling another box off the counter and opening it. “I had a run-in with the neighbor earlier. She’s… intense.”

“Oh, this should be good,” Mia says, laughing. “Give me all the details.”

I recount the driveway fiasco with Riley, from the horn-blaring to the whole “city boy” debacle. By the time I finish, Mia’s cackling like she just won the lottery.

“She called you city boy? Oh, that’s fantastic. Youarea walking, talking New Yorker stereotype, after all.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter.

“So, who is this woman, anyway?” she asks, still chuckling. “She sounds… colorful.”

“She’s just my neighbor,” I say, though her name already feels heavier in my mouth than I’d like. “Riley something. I didn’t catch her last name.”

“Ah, Riley Caldwell,” Mia says casually.

I blink. “Wait, what? How do you know that?”

“Through Dotty,” she explains as if I’m supposed to already know who Dotty is. “Dotty isRiley’s aunt, and happens to be your next-door neighbor. I told you about her, remember? She’s one of my book club friends.”

I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Great. So Riley and Dotty are related. That’s just what I needed.”

“Oh, come on,” Mia says, her tone dripping with amusement. “Dotty’s harmless. And Riley… well, she sounds like she’s got a lot on her plate. You’ve always been drawn to people with a little fire, haven’t you?”

“You’re imagining things,” I say, shaking my head. “There’s nothing to tell.”

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