It was three weeks and four days after I spent the first night in my first home that a plain white pickup truck pulled into the driveway across from mine.
I was so excited that I didn’t even check what I was wearing, didn’t take even a moment to dust on some bronzer. I just leaped off my couch and walked as fast as my legs were willing to go out my front door, down my cracked driveway, and up his. I was already at the back bumper of his truck when he climbed out.
And then my breath caught. Because he was… handsome. Like so handsome, but also intimidating. And strong. He looked so freaking strong.
My neglected libido tumbled out of hibernation like a hungry bear rolling out of her cave, dried leaves shaking off with each roll, until she splashed headfirst into a lake that smelled of man.
I snort at myself, causing water to splash over the edge of the sink, as I remember the way I acted that day.
My palm was probably sweaty when I stuck it out between us.
His long dark blond hair was pulled back into a bun, with a few pieces escaping and falling across his eyes. And it did things to me. Because they weren’t just eyes. They were intense, and his irises are such a deep brown they almost looked black. And his jaw line… I could faint now just thinking of it. It’s chiseled, and it was covered in this stubble several shades darker than his hair.
It was too much.
Hans was too much.
So I said the only thing I could manage. I’m Cassie, your new neighbor.
He didn’t look happy. Not before I said it, and even less so after I said it. But he did reply, with what I’ve had to assume is his first name.
Hans.
Hans, the Scandinavian fantasy I didn’t know I had. Please, pretty please, swing me up over your shoulder and carry me off to your bedroom. We can pretend it’s a Viking encampment. You’re the main warrior dude, and I’m the princess you just stole from your enemy to claim as your own…
I turn off the water and squeeze my eyes shut as I pat my face dry with a clean towel.
Of course, none of that stuff happened. Instead of stealing and ravishing me, Hans dropped my hand, slammed his truck door, strode into his garage, and hit the button to shut the overhead door without so much as a glance over his shoulder for a second look at me.
Quite the ding to thee old self-esteem.
But after that wildly successful first meeting, I figured I’d win him over with baked goods.
And thus began our yearlong game of cat and mouse.
Though, I’m not really sure who’s who in our situation.
Because I catch glimpses of him. Hans pulling his truck straight into his garage, Hans pulling out of his garage, Hans walking back from his mailbox with strides too long and fast for me to ever accidentally meet him while heading out to check on my own mail—trust me, I’ve tried. So I know he’s still alive. And that he still lives there. But he never answers the door.
Not once.
I turn off the light and enter my bedroom.
Stripping off my shorts and underwear, I toss my bra on the floor and dig out a pair of sleep shorts.
Technically the shirt I wore over to Hans’s house is a pajama top, but with a bra, it looks like any other tank top. And it’s not like he saw me anyway.
I turn off my bedside lamp and drop into bed.
Time to scroll recipes while I wonder if Hans actually eats what I leave for him or if he just throws it all away and returns the empty container.
CHAPTER 3
Hans
When the final light in her house turns off, I wait another forty-seven minutes.
She’s always asleep within forty-five minutes, but I like to be certain.
With a groan, I push out of my chair and turn off the monitors. My knives are as sharp as they’re gonna get tonight, and I have food to retrieve.
I look through the little crescent window at the top of my front door, double-checking that no new lights are on across the street, then I open the door and scoop up the rectangular glass container before shutting and locking it again.
As always, there’s a yellow Post-it note on the top of the lid.
Chocolate chip zucchini cookies.
Even as I trace my finger over the lettering, I can feel my nose crinkling.
I’ve heard of zucchini bread, but not cookies. And the bread has me skeptical enough.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I carry the cookies into my little kitchen and set them on the counter.
After carefully setting the Post-it off to the side, the lid lifts easily, and with it comes the smell of chocolate and wet vegetables.
I sigh.
Instead of looking like normal cookies, these look like damp green hockey pucks that have lost their shape along the way. But when I lift one out, it surprisingly holds together.