Page 2 of Daddy Next Door

Get a grip, Lily. He's just a neighbor.

I peeked again. He'd rolled up his sleeves further, revealing muscled forearms dusted with dark hair. Mid forties, maybe? Salt and pepper in his stubble caught the light when he turned. A mover dropped the corner of what looked like a dining table, and my new neighbor didn't flinch or yell. He just moved over to help, his voice too low for me to hear but his body language all calm reassurance.

Something about him seemed familiar, though I was certain we'd never met. I'd have remembered.

Pulling away from the window, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My hair was pulled into a messy bun with a sparkly child's scrunchie. I wore my comfort clothes—pastel leggings and an oversized t-shirt with a subtle cartoon character. Not exactly meet-the-neighbors attire.

The adult thing would be to introduce myself. The thought made anxiety flutter in my stomach.

I could just stay in my little space, safe behind my curtains. No one would know. No one would care.

But I'd spent three years in this townhouse building a cordial relationship with Mrs. Abernathy. She'd collected my packages when I was away. I'd watered her plants during her senior cruise. That kind of neighbor insurance policy didn't happen without an introduction.

I closed my laptop and headed to my bedroom. My closet was as divided as my office—work clothes on the left, comfortable clothes on the right. I selected something in between: a blue sundress with tiny white stars scattered across the fabric.

I brushed out my hair, replaced the kid's scrunchie with a more adult-appropriate hair tie, and added a touch of tinted lip balm. In the mirror, I practiced my Normal Adult Woman smile. Not too eager. Not too distant. Just neighborly.

What did people bring to new neighbors? I tapped through my phone for ideas. Cookies seemed too Mrs. Abernathy. Wine felt too familiar. Plants required care from someone in the middle of moving.

I settled on a practical approach. In a small basket, I assembled items from my pantry and supply closet: good coffee, granola bars, hand soap, paper towels, and a roll of toilet paper (because who remembers to pack that?). I added a notepad with my phone number "for neighborhood emergencies" and a small potted succulent that could survive neglect. Practical, thoughtful, not overly personal.

Standing at my front door, basket in hand, I hesitated. The last of the moving truck contents were being unloaded. My new neighbor stood on his porch, checking items off his clipboard as they passed. His profile was strong—straight nose, defined jaw under that stubble, broad shoulders under a now-slightly-rumpled blue shirt.

I took a deep breath and stepped outside.

The short walkway to his door felt longer with each step. The basket grew heavier. My prepared greeting—Hi, I'm Lily from next door, just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood—repeated in my head like a mantra.

As I approached his porch, he looked up from his clipboard. Our eyes met. His were blue—not the washed-out, barely-there blue, but a deep, thoughtful color like a spring sky. Laugh lines crinkled at the corners when his face registered my approach.

"Hi there," he said, his voice a pleasant baritone.

My rehearsed greeting vanished. "I brought you things," I blurted, lifting the basket.

His smile widened, transforming his whole face from merely handsome to something that made my stomach flip. "That's incredibly kind," he said, setting his clipboard on a nearby box and coming down the porch steps to meet me.

Up close, he was even taller than I'd thought, at least six feet. I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, which made me feel suddenly, strangely small.

"I'm Lily Morgan," I managed, finding my script again. "I live next door. Thought you might need some supplies while you're getting settled."

He reached for the basket just as I shifted my grip, and our fingers brushed against each other. A tingle ran up my arm that had nothing to do with static electricity.

"Ethan Hayes," he said, his fingers lingering against mine for a beat longer than necessary. "And you're right, I absolutely need these things. How did you know?"

I shrugged, hyperaware of how close we were standing. "I've moved a few times. These are always the things I forget until it's too late and I'm in my pajamas, unable to go to the store."

His eyes crinkled again. "Smart and thoughtful. I lucked out in the neighbor department."

He took the basket, examining its contents with genuine appreciation. When he spotted the toilet paper, he actually laughed—a rich sound that made me want to hear it again.

"You're a lifesaver, Lily Morgan," he said, my name sounding somehow special in his voice. "This is exactly what I need. The moving company is efficient but not exactly gentle with my things."

"I noticed," I said, then immediately worried I'd given away my window-watching. "I mean, I heard some crashes."

Ethan nodded, seemingly unbothered. "They've turned one chair into modern art and murdered at least one lamp. Hazards of relocation." He glanced behind him at the still-open door. "Would you like to come in? I can't offer you a seat yet—the couch is somewhere under all those boxes—but I just got the coffee maker working."

Every stranger-danger warning bell should have been ringing, but none were. Instead, I felt an unusual pull toward him, a comfort that made no logical sense.

"I'd like that," I said, surprising myself.

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