Page 24 of Matched with the Playboy Next Door

“Looks like clean-up duty is calling,” Riley says, setting her now-empty plate on the stage.

“I’ll help,” I offer, grabbing a trash bag from the supply bin nearby.

She raises an eyebrow. “You? Cleaning? This I have to see.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” I reply, grinning. “I’m perfectly capable of manual labor.”

“We’ll see,” she says, a playful edge in her voice, but her lips quirk like she’s trying not to smile.

“Watch and learn,” I quip, heading to the nearest table and sweeping discarded cups and napkins into the bag.

Riley grabs another trash bag and joins me, and soon, we fall into an easy rhythm, clearing tables and stacking chairs. The hum of conversation fades as most of the volunteers head out, leaving just a handful of us behind.

“You’re not half bad at this,” she says after a while, glancing over at me.

“High praise,” I reply, tossing a crumpled napkin into the bag. “Careful, Riley. You might start giving people the impression you actually like me.”

“Don’t make me regret saying that,” she replies, shaking her head with a faint smile.

For a moment, we work in silence, the sounds of crickets and distant laughter filling the air. It’s peaceful in a way I didn’t expect, and I find myself watching her again, the way her brow furrows slightly when she’s focused, the way her lips press together when she’s thinking.

“So,” I say, breaking the quiet, “how did you end up running the hardware store? Was that always the plan?”

She hesitates, glancing down at the bag in her hands. “Not really. The hardware store belonged to myparents. After they passed, Aunt Dotty stepped in, and I needed something steady to keep me grounded. The store kind of became… home. It gave me a purpose, and I guess, in a way, it’s been a way to keep them close.”

I nod, letting her words sink in. “That makes sense. You’re good at it—you know, running things.”

She looks at me, her expression softer than usual. “What about you? You mentioned the high-pressure family business, but what really made you leave New York?”

I pause, the question hanging between us. “I guess I got tired of trying to be someone I’m not,” I admit. “My parents expected me to follow a certain path, to be the guy who could handle the pressure and the spotlight. But it wasn’t me—not really. I needed something quieter. Something real.”

Riley studies me for a moment, her gaze searching. “And you think you’ll find that here?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I’m starting to think it’s possible.”

She nods, her eyes lingering on mine for a beat too long.

“Hey,” I say, my voice lightening as I hold up the trash bag, “I think we’re making progress. Maybe I’m not such a useless city boy, after all.”

She laughs, the sound soft and genuine. “Don’t push your luck.”

We keep working, the banter flowing easier now, but underneath it all, there’s something else—a quiet understanding, a connection I didn’t expect.

As we finish stacking the last of the chairs, Riley leans against the stage, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “You’re not what I expected,” she says quietly.

“Neither are you,” I reply, stepping closer.

She looks at me, her eyes catching the faint glow of the string lights above. For a moment, everything else fades—the mess, the empty park, the lingering sounds of the night. It’s just us, standing there in the quiet, and I feel it again—that pull, that thing I can’t quite name but don’t want to ignore.

But before I can say anything, someone calls out from across the park, breaking the moment.

“Great job, you two!” Mia shouts, waving as she heads toward us.

Riley steps back, the spell broken, and I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to mask the sudden rush of disappointment.

“Guess we’re done here,” she says, her voice steady again.

“Yeah,” I say, forcing a grin. “For now.”

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