Page 3 of Daddy Next Door

He stepped aside, making space for me to enter first, his hand hovering near—but not touching—the small of my back as I passed. It wasn't a touch, but the nearness of it sent warmth spreading through me nonetheless.

The interior of his townhouse was identical to mine in layout but chaotically different in current state. Boxes teetered in precarious stacks. Furniture sat at odd angles, waiting for proper placement. The movers had departed, leaving Ethan to sort through the aftermath.

"It's a disaster zone," he said, setting my basket on a counter. "But the kitchen's functional. Coffee?"

I nodded, watching as he moved efficiently through the space, finding mugs, sugar, and cream without having to search. For someone who'd just moved in, he seemed remarkably oriented to his environment.

"So," he said, measuring coffee grounds, "what do you do, Lily Morgan from next door?"

"I'm a graphic designer," I said. "I work from home, mostly for clients on the east coast."

His eyebrows lifted with interest. "Creative work. Do you enjoy it?"

The question was simple but asked with such genuine curiosity that I found myself giving a real answer instead of my usual polite one.

"Parts of it. I love the design process—solving visual problems, making something both beautiful and functional. I don't love the client management part as much. Some people have very . . . strong opinions about things they don't understand."

He handed me a mug, our fingers brushing again. This time I was prepared for the little shock of awareness, but it still made my breath catch.

"I understand that completely," he said. "I'm a psychologist. People sometimes have very fixed ideas about what they want versus what I can see they actually need."

A psychologist. My heart did a complicated flip.

"That must be challenging," I said, taking a sip of perfectly prepared coffee.

He leaned against the counter, long legs crossed at the ankle. "It is, but it's worth it. I specialize in helping people connect with their inner child. Children are the most authentic, honest people. They haven't learned to hide parts of themselves yet." His eyes met mine over his mug. "Adults could learn a lot from them."

Something in his tone made me wonder if he could see right through me—if somehow my little side was visible to his trained eye. I looked away, my cheeks warming.

"What brought you to this neighborhood?" I asked, changing the subject.

"A new position at Pinewood Medical Center. And I wanted somewhere quieter after years in the city. Somewhere I could put down roots." He gestured to a box labeled 'BOOKS - PSYCHOLOGY' in neat block letters. "Somewhere with enough shelf space for my collection."

We talked easily after that. He asked thoughtful questions about my work, my time in the neighborhood, favorite local spots. I found myself sharing more than I normally would with someone I'd just met—my favorite coffee shop with the reading nook, the trail by the creek where I walked when stuck on a design problem, the farmers market that set up on Saturdays.

As we talked, I noticed how Ethan moved in the space—with purpose and care. When I accidentally knocked an empty box with my elbow, sending it toward a precariously balanced stack, he caught it smoothly before it could cause a domino effect. His reflexes were impressive, his body angling protectively between me and the potential cascade of boxes.

"Sorry," I said, embarrassed.

"Don't be," he replied, his hand briefly squeezing my shoulder before letting go. "Moving chaos isn't your fault."

That brief touch, warm and firm through the fabric of my dress, sent a wave of something unfamiliar through me—a desire to lean into his strength, to let some of my carefully maintained self-control dissolve.

I took a step back, confused by my reaction. I'd dated before. I'd been touched before. This was different—this wasn't just attraction. This was something that resonated with a deeper part of me, the part I kept hidden behind my pastel curtains.

"I should let you get back to unpacking," I said, setting my empty mug on the counter. "But if you need anything else, I'm right through that wall." I pointed to our shared wall.

He walked me to the door, moving slightly ahead to open it for me—a small, old-fashioned courtesy that somehow didn't feel patronizing.

"Thank you again for the welcome basket," he said. "It was incredibly thoughtful."

"It's nothing," I replied, stepping onto the porch. "Just being neighborly."

"Well, I hope neighbor Lily will show me around sometime. I'd like to see those places you mentioned through local eyes."

"I'd be happy to," I said, meaning it despite my confusion. "Good luck with the unpacking."

As I walked back to my door, I felt his eyes on me. Not in a creepy way, but in a way that made me feel simultaneously seen and protected. I glanced back once before entering my house. He was still standing in his doorway, watching me with that same warm smile that reached his eyes.

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