Page 34 of Matched with the Playboy Next Door

Her eyes follow me as I sling it over my shoulder and head toward the door. “Riley, honey, you’ve been quiet all morning. Is something on your mind?”

I freeze for a second, gripping the strap of my bag tighter. “I’m fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly.

“You don’t look fine,” she presses, setting down her watering can. “Does this have anything to do with Ethan?”

His name hits like a spark on dry kindling, and I feel my stomach twist. I force a shrug, trying to seem indifferent. “It’s nothing. I just have a lot on my plate right now.”

Aunt Dotty doesn’t buy it, of course. She steps closer, her gaze soft but knowing. “Riley, you can’t keep everything bottled up forever. Whatever’s going on, shutting people out won’t make it better.”

I want to argue, to tell her she’s wrong. But the truth is, she’s not. I’ve spent years building walls, convincing myself that being alone is better than risking the pain of losing someone again. Letting someone in feels likehanding them the power to break me. And Ethan… Ethan’s too close to doing just that.

I let out a sharp breath, avoiding her eyes. “It’s easier this way.”

“Easier isn’t always better,” she says, her voice steady. “Sometimes it just leaves you lonelier.”

The words settle in my chest like a stone, heavy and suffocating. I don’t respond. Instead, I mutter something about heading to the store and leave before she can say anything else.

At the store, everything feels off. The familiar scent of sawdust and metal, usually comforting, just feels hollow today. I spend the morning busying myself with tasks that don’t need doing—rearranging shelves, sweeping floors that are already clean—anything to keep my mind occupied.

But it doesn’t work.

Every time the bell above the door jingles, my chest tightens, half-expecting Ethan to walk in. Part of me wants him to—wants him to say something, anything, that’ll make this feeling go away.

But another part of me knows it won’t matter. Words don’t mean much when actions tell a different story.

By lunchtime, the store is busy with customers, but I keep my interactions short, polite, and distant. I can feel the curious stares, the unspoken questions hanging in the air.

I know what they’re thinking. I heard the whispers yesterday, the way people talked about Ethan andGeorgia like they were Bardstown’s new power couple. And every time someone mentions it, it feels like another wall slamming into place around me.

The whispers shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t care who Ethan spends his time with, or what people assume about us. But the idea of him and Georgia—her polished, effortless charm—lingers like a splinter. It’s not just jealousy. It’s the fear that I was wrong to let my guard down, even a little. And worse, the fear that maybe I wasn’t enough for him to stay in the first place.

When I get home that evening, Aunt Dotty is in the kitchen, humming again as she stirs something on the stove. The smell of baked apples and cinnamon fills the air, but it doesn’t do much to ease the tension in my chest.

She glances up as I walk in, her smile fading slightly when she sees me. “Rough day?”

I shrug, kicking off my boots and dropping my bag by the door. “Just busy.”

Dotty sets the spoon down and turns to face me, crossing her arms. “Riley, sit down.”

I hesitate, knowing where this is going, but the look on her face leaves no room for argument. I sit at the table, avoiding her gaze.

“You’ve been like this all day,” she says, her tone soft but firm. “Is it about Ethan?”

I stiffen, my fingers curling into fists on my lap. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Aunt Dotty sighs, sitting across from me. “Honey, I know you’ve been hurt before. I know letting people in isn’t easy for you. But whatever happened with Ethan, you can’t just shut him out.”

I glance away, my voice barely above a whisper. “What if shutting him out is the only thing keeping me from getting hurt? He’s just going to leave anyway. People like him always do.”

The words sound hollow even to me, like I’m trying to convince myself more than her. Aunt Dotty sighs, her hand warm and steady on mine, as if she’s trying to transfer her strength into me. “Maybe he won’t. Maybe this time is different.”

I shake my head, pulling my hand away. “It doesn’t matter. It’s safer this way.”

She doesn’t argue, but the look in her eyes says she doesn’t believe me.

Later, as I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, her words echo in my mind.Maybe this time is different.

But the ache in my chest won’t let me believe it.

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