Page 3 of Matched with the Playboy Next Door

“Yet,” Mia counters.

I can already hear the wheels turning in her head, so I try to change the subject. “You’re not calling just to snoop, are you? This wouldn’t happen to be about my parents, would it?”

“Me? Spying on you?” she gasps, offended. “Never.”

“Mia,” I say firmly. “Tell me the truth.”

“Fine,” she relents. “Your mother asked me to check in. But only because she’s worried about you! You know how they are. They can’t stand the idea of their golden boy living without twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

I shake my head, trying to keep my voice steady. “They’re halfway around the world, Mia. I doubt they’re losing sleep over me.”

“You’d be surprised,” she says, her voice softening. “They’re just… not great at showing it, that’s all.”

I let out a hollow laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

“You know they only pushed you so hard because they saw how capable you were,” Mia adds. “You can’t fault them for wanting the best for you.”

“I’m not faulting them,” I reply. “I just needed a break. That’s all.”

Mia pauses, then changes the subject. “Anyway, you’ll be seeing me plenty enough. You’ll have to stop in at my flower shop soon, too!”

I raise an eyebrow. “Please tell me you’re not keeping tabs on me for Mom and Dad.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she says breezily. “I want to hang out with one of my favorite cousins—” she ignores my cynical snort, “—and Emma and Sam are off on vacation for a couple of weeks. It’s boring without my best friend to entertain me. And also maybe drink some wine.”

“You’re going to micromanage me, aren’t you?”

“Only a little,” she teases. “Besides, someone has to keep you in line. You’re an unsupervised rich boy in small-town America. That’s a recipe for disaster if I’ve ever heard one.”

I shake my head, laughing despite myself. “Fine. But you’d better bring decent wine. No boxed stuff.”

“Deal,” she says, her voice warm again. “And Ethan… don’t let Bardstown scare you off. I have a feeling this place is going to be good for you. You’ll probably be hosting garden parties and waving at neighbors byChristmas.”

My first impression of this place wasn’t so bad, actually. It feels like an awakening of some sort, but I’m not ready to tell Mia that.

I pocket my phone and grab another box from the truck labeledBedroom—Fragile.

The second floor is a labyrinth of empty rooms, waiting to be filled with furniture I haven’t bought yet. I push open the door to the main bedroom and set the box down near the window. The space is massive, with tall ceilings and a view overlooking the sprawling backyard. There’s an old fountain out there, its stone edges worn smooth by time. It’s probably useless now, but I can already picture it restored, water sparkling in the sunlight.

I open the box and sift through its contents: a stack of cufflinks in a velvet case, a collection of designer watches, and a photo of my cousin Sam and me at a gala a few years back.

I stare at the picture for a moment, shaking my head with a grin. The tuxedo, the champagne flute, the arm slung casually around a woman I can’t even remember—classic Ethan, or at least the version of me everyone saw. The playboy persona. Always smiling, always charming, always keeping things easy and light.

I set the photo on the dresser, the grin fading from my face. That guy—the one with the crooked smile and endless confidence—wasn’t entirely fake. But he wasn’t the whole story, either.

I move back downstairs to the living room, dragging a heavy box of books to the new shelf. I start stacking them one by one, running my fingers over the spines. “The Artof the Pitch,” “How to Win Clients and Influence Deals,” and a few Hemingway classics mixed in for balance.

I slide the last book into place and step back, staring at the shelf. The titles look foreign now, like they belong to someone else. Maybe they do. The person who read them, who built a life around their lessons, feels like a shadow in the corner—familiar but distant. I glance toward the window, where the light is fading fast, painting the room in shades of gray. Somewhere in Bardstown, my next chapter is waiting. And for the first time in years, I’m starting to believe I can write it the way I want.

CHAPTER 2

RILEY

Imarch back into the house, muttering under my breath as I yank off my gardening glove and toss it onto the kitchen counter. My other hand rubs at the growing tension in my neck as I glare at nothing in particular. I could have actually missed my important meeting with the landscape architect today if I hadn't gotten out there in time to see him standing by the moving truck.

Of all the people who could’ve moved into the estate next door, of course, it had to be him. The fancy moving truck, the tailored shirt, and that ridiculous smirk. City Boy through and through. I swear I can still hear his overly polite tone, dripping with condescension:Good morning to you, too.

Maybe I was harsh, but who blocks a driveway on a Monday morning?

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