Page 18 of Hometown Touchdown
“You won’t.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Her voice softens, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “Yeah. Because you’re not that guy.”
I stare at her for a long beat. The silence stretches between us, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. Finally, I turn toward the door.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if I hear ‘Toxic’ before I’ve had coffee, I’m calling the cops.”
Her laugh follows me onto the porch. “You better not! That’s my unpacking anthem!”
The door shuts behind me. I stand there for a second, rubbing the back of my neck while Priscilla trots ahead back to our door like nothing happened.
So this is my life now. Brynn Marlow isn’t just my tenant, we share a wall. And I’m absolutely, completely screwed.
Chapter eight
Brynn
Knoxwalksout,stoppingjust short of slamming the door behind him.
Well. That was something.
I stare at the now-closed door, the silence behind it still buzzing with the ghost of his frustration. Thenerveof him—storming over like he owns the place.
Okay,technicallyhe does. Whatever.
He’ll just have to get over it, because I’m not going anywhere. Lease is signed. Boxes are moved in. Furniture’s arrivingMonday. I’ve already mentally assigned my plants their new sunlit perches. Sorry, Coach Dalton. This tenant’s staying.
And no, it didn’t bother me that his hair was a mess in that aggravatingly hot, post-bedhead kind of way. Or that his T-shirt looked vacuum-sealed to his biceps. Or that his voice had that low, gravelly, barely-awake rumble that belongs in a romance audiobook and not real life.
Nope. Not even a little.
I blow out a breath and give my head a firm shake. Focus. I reach for a box on the living room floor—one of the heavier ones, based on the ominous clank inside—and lug it to the kitchen. Pots and pans. Great.
As I set it down, I stretch out my arms, shaking the tension from my hands. Starting over wasn’t supposed to feel like emotional dodgeball with my ex-boyfriend/landlord/next-door-neighbor. I signed up for quiet. Peace. A fresh start. Not spontaneous memories and shirt-clad thirst traps storming across my lawn.
I grab my phone off the counter and hover my finger over the play button. A petty part of me wants to crank the volume out of spite. But I’m not heartless, orcompletelytone-deaf. Maybe I overdid it this morning with the Whitney-Britney combo platter. Still, a girl needs a little drama when she’s unpacking alone.
With a sigh, I lower the volume to a level that won’t summon the wrath of Knox Dalton again.
“This is me compromising,” I mutter. To the room. Or maybe to the wall we now share.
Then I hit play.
Britney’s voice fills the kitchen like a whisper instead of a war cry, and I start unwrapping coffee mugs. Not quite as satisfying, but I’ll live.
For now.
I break down the final box and add it to the Leaning Tower of Recycling by the front door. The place still feels half-empty—no couch, no coffee table, nothing on the walls—but it’s mine.
A blank slate. A tiny echoing box of freedom.
Sure, the folding chair I’ve been using as a table screams "college freshman on a budget," but that’s fine. I feel good. Settled. Almost.
The doorbell rings, loud and unexpected.
I crack the door open to find my mom and dad on the porch, loaded down like suburban sherpas. Grocery bags in Mom’s hands. Two air mattresses balanced across Dad’s arms.
