Page 9 of The Cul-de-Sac War

Ten feet into the cul-de-sac, her car came to a stop.

She put her car in reverse.

Pulled back.

Turned her wheel.

Drove into her own petite, graveled driveway.

The engine of the truck beside her cut off.

She cut hers and climbed out of the vehicle.

His door popped open.

Out of the heinous truck, with nothing but a tiny patch of grass between them, hopped Chip. Duct-tape man. With the bright, innocent face of a cherubim.

He shut the door, oblivious to her while he pressed a phone to his ear. “Well, then just upgrade service to 200 amp. But hey, I gotta go. I’ll call you when I get to Rodefer.” He kicked a chunk of gravel at his feet. “Sounds good.”

He slipped his phone into his pocket, and she watched as he put his hands on his hips and looked up at the run-down two-story brick house before him—from the limp Sold sign in the meager front yard to the crisp, white-capped Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance. A smile played on his face as he surveyed it all, as though he was now lord of the Biltmore. When he spotted her, his smile widened.

“It’s you.”

“Bree?” Bree nearly jumped at Cassie’s voice in her ear. “What’s happening?”

She lowered the phone to her side and stood motionless, her eyes moving from the sign and back to him. To the sign again.

What was happening?

Oh, nothing.

Nothing except the fact that she was standing in her driveway staring into the face of the man who’d owned the range of her emotions for the past two hours, who just so happened to be her new neighbor.

They say that 95 percent of the time the first impression you have of a person is right.

And in this case, she had been dead, dead wrong.

Chapter 2

Chip

Sixteen hundred square feet of 1906 red oak flooring ready to be restored to all its herringbone-bordered perfection. Twenty-two windows—three of which were cracked—ready to be torn out and replaced with double-pane, energy-efficient, crystal-clear glass. One tired but nonetheless chugging along oil furnace. Two Pepto Bismol–pink tubs. Fourteen hideous green cabinets begging to be thrown into the dumpster that was making its way up Main Street this very moment.

One incredible, panoramic view of the frosted peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

And one mysterious fairy he’d had the surprising pleasure of meeting on a nondescript staircase, now staring at him.

Granted, this stare wasn’t entirely of the positive kind. She was frowning. And still caked from forehead to throat in pea soup–green makeup, matched by a stunning green dress (also the object of a recent coffee spill, it seemed) that enhanced her striking emerald eyes.

A discreet cough in the back of his mind brought him back into line.

Right.

He had a girlfriend. A terrific, wonderful girlfriend.

Yes, this woman had striking green eyes, but he could’ve noticed that about anyone. It was a perfectly harmless, meaningless observation.

Just like he’d noticed how nice that green dress looked on her, so very appropriately her color. Good for her. It was hard to find such color-complementary clothing these days.