Page 1 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Guy Next Door

Chapter One

MEGAN

The cabin is cute. Cozy even, with a wraparound porch and a wood-burning stove that I’ll have no use for this sizzling August. There are hundreds of books in the carpenter-built bookshelves and a gigantic TV. It also comes with a porch swing and an excellent view of my neighbor's tan, muscular bare back.

I stop halfway to my cabin, clutching a box. He's splitting logs in the yard next door, shirtless, the axe coming down in a slow, steady arc that ends with a crack loud enough to bounce off the ridge. He must be in his late thirties, with thick, dark hair, damp at the neck. Drops of sweat roll down the length of his exceptionally well-constructed spine. He has hugely broad shoulders, built for hauling things much heavier than firewood.

Aunt Delphine leftthatout of the brochure.

“Morning!” I call.

Crack.

The halves fall away from the block. He sets another log up, glances over, and gives me a nod so small I could have invented it.

Then he goes back to the axe.

Wonderful.

I haul the box up the steps and drop it inside the door with the others. The cabin smells like my aunt’s lavender sachet, and there's a jar of wildflowers on the table with a note in my aunt's beautiful handwriting.

Bathroom faucet drips. Ignore it. Bed's made with that quilt you like. So glad you're here, sweetheart.

I love her for that. She didn't writeyour mother called meorI hope you’re okayor any of the other things people have been saying to me recently.

Out here, I have some breathing space. I’ll stay in Snowflake Falls through August for festival week, help Delphine with the stand, and finish the rest of the text and the illustrations for my book. That's it. No drama anddefinitelyno men, because I've had what feels like a lifetime of Nathaniel Perry and I'd rather eat mud.

Out the window, the axe comes down again with a resounding crack, so I close the curtain.

By evening I've unpacked exactly one box, drunk a large glass of wine, and eaten crackers over the sink for dinner, which is how I know I'm doing great.

My sketchbook is open on the table; drawings of three foxes, none of them good. The publisher wants a cute woodland series, but I've drawn a fox that looks like a slipper with a face. My best friend Winnie would laugh about the slipper and I pick up my phone to text her.

Outside, tires crunch on the gravel. Then two doors slam, and Aunt Delphine's voice carries up from the drive.

“Megan Donnelly, if you're in there working, I'm taking the pencils home with me.”

“I'm not working,” I shout back, opening the front door.

“Liar.” She comes up the steps with a bottle in each hand and kisses my cheek, her long gray braids swinging. My aunt is wearing one of the flowing, rainbow-colored caftans she designs,complete with gold sandals that lace up to her knees. My sister-in-law Jean's behind her with a stack of pizza boxes and the face of a woman who has recently escaped from small children.

“Russell has the kids,” Jean says. “Both of them. Alone. I've given him a whole list of instructions and he told me he's raised four sisters.”

“He didn't raise us… we were brought up like feral wolves.”

“That's what I said.”

They help me grab glasses and we take it all out to the porch. Delphine pours the wine while Jean opens the pizza boxes with a flourish. For the first time in weeks, I feel relaxed.

“So,” my aunt says. “Have you met your neighbor? Harris.”

“I've met… the back of Harris. Oh, and he gave me the ghost of a nod.”

Jean grins over the edge of her wine glass.

“Yeah… he's sure not the chatty type,” Delphine says. “Don't take it to heart. He's been up here for years, and maybe he’s a little under-socialized.”

“He didn't say a word to me.”