Chapter 1

Julia

The rental car door slams shut behind me with a satisfying thunk, and I stretch my arms overhead, working out the kinks from the four-hour drive. The crisp October air hits my lungs like a wake-up call, sharp and clean in a way that city air never manages to be.

A gust of wind sends a cascade of maple leaves tumbling across the gravel driveway, brilliant scarlets and burnished golds that crunch under my feet as I walk toward the house. The trees surrounding the property look like they've been dipped in fire, their branches heavy with autumn's grand finale. I pause to watch a particularly stubborn leaf spiral down from an oak tree, dancing on invisible currents before landing on my shoulder like some kind of woodland blessing.

"Well, Aunt Vivian," I murmur, brushing the leaf away, "you always did have a flair for the dramatic."

The Maplewood Bed & Breakfast sits before me like something from a postcard I might've sent home during a weekend getaway, if I'd ever taken weekend getaways. The two-story Victorian house wears its age gracefully, all weathered cedar shingles and white-trimmed windows that catch the afternoon light. The wraparound porch beckons with its promise of lazy mornings and rocking chairs, though right now it's populated by cheerful clusters of potted chrysanthemums in every shade from deep burgundy to sunny yellow.

I adjust the strap of my laptop bag and start up the flagstone path, my heels clicking against the stones. The sound feels wrong somehow, too sharp and business-like for this place that seems to exist outside the normal rules of corporate efficiency.

The porch steps creak under my weight, a sound I remember from childhood visits, though back then I was light enough that the old boards barely whispered their complaints. Now they groan like they're announcing my arrival to anyone within earshot. I run my hand along the painted railing, noting where the white paint has started to chip near the corners. Nothing that can't be fixed with some elbow grease and a weekend trip to the hardware store.

But as I reach for the front door, I freeze.

Because suddenly I'm eight years old again, standing on this exact spot while Aunt Vivian fusses over my windblown hair and grass-stained jeans. Her voice echoes in my memory, warm and slightly exasperated: "Julia Mae Irving, what have you been doing? Rolling around in the garden with the rabbits?"

I'd been doing exactly that, actually. Trying to catch the cottontails that lived under the rose bushes, much to Vivian's horror and my mother's mortification. But Vivian had just laughed and steered me inside for cookies and milk, telling me stories about the guests who'd stayed in each room while she braided wildflowers into my hair.

My throat tightens. She'd been gone for three months now, and I still catch myself reaching for my phone to call her on Sunday afternoons. Still expect to hear her voice on the other end, asking about my latest marketing campaign or whether I'd finally started dating someone worthy of her approval.

The answer to that last question had always been no, much to her endless frustration.

"You work too hard, sweet pea," she'd said during our last conversation, her voice already thin from the illness she'd been hiding from me. "Life's not just about climbing ladders and checking boxes. Sometimes you've got to jump off the ladder entirely and see where you land."

I'd laughed it off then, chalked it up to her eternal optimism and small-town sensibilities. But standing here now, keys heavy in my palm, I wonder if she'd somehow known this moment would come. If leaving me the B&B had been her way of forcing me to jump.

The autumn wind picks up again, sending another shower of leaves across the porch and rattling the hanging baskets of late-season flowers. The mums bob and sway like they're nodding encouragement, and I can almost hear Vivian's voice again: "Well, don't just stand there gawking, honey. Those floors won't scrub themselves."

I take a deep breath and slide the key into the lock. It turns smoothly, and the door swings open to reveal the front hallway I remember: hardwood floors polished to a honey glow, a antique coat rack standing sentinel beside the door, and the subtle scent of lavender and lemon oil that had always been Vivian's signature.

But there's something else in the air now. Something that smells like neglect and closed-up spaces, the particular mustiness that settles into a house when it's been empty too long.

My chest tightens again, but this time it's not just grief. It's determination, sharp and purposeful as the October air.

"Okay, Aunt Vivian," I say aloud, my voice echoing in the empty hallway. "Let's see what we're working with."

I drop my bags by the door and pull out my phone, immediately switching into assessment mode. The photographer I hired for the website will be here next week, which means I need to get this place camera-ready. Fresh flowers for the dining room, new linens for the guest rooms, and definitely something about that squeaky floorboard in the upstairs hallway.

But as I start toward the kitchen to begin my inspection, another memory stops me cold. Vivian, flour in her silver hair and an apron tied around her ample waist, teaching me to make her famous blueberry scones. The kitchen had been the heart of this place, always warm and welcoming, filled with the sound of her humming and the smell of whatever delicious thing she'd been conjuring up for the guests.

I close my eyes and let myself feel the weight of what I'm taking on. This isn't just a business venture or a career pivot. It's a legacy. Vivian's life work, wrapped up in cedar shingles and memories.

The responsibility should terrify me. Instead, it feels like coming home.

I wander through the main floor, making mental notes about what needs immediate attention versus what can wait until spring. The hardwood floors could use a good polish, and there's a water stain on the dining room ceiling that suggests the upstairs bathroom might need some plumbing work. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to keep me busy for the next few weeks.

The afternoon light streaming through the windows catches dust motes dancing in the air, and I find myself gravitating toward the large bay window in what Vivian always called the morning room. She'd placed a small writing desk here, positioned perfectly to catch the eastern light, and I can picture her sitting here with her coffee and guest book, planning menus and coordinating room assignments.

I lean against the window frame, surveying the view that stretches across the back garden toward the neighboring properties. Vivian's flower beds are overgrown but not beyond saving, and the old apple tree in the corner still looks sturdy enough to support the swing that hangs from its lowest branch.

But it's the house next door that makes me pause mid-inventory.

Where the Maplewood B&B embraces its Victorian charm with gentle grace, this place commands attention like a magazine spread come to life. Modern lines cut sharp angles against the autumn sky, all steel and glass and architectural confidence. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the surrounding maples, and I can see straight through to what appears to be a sunroom or studio space on the far side.

And in that sunroom, completely oblivious to my accidental surveillance, stands a man who definitely doesn't belong in any of my carefully organized life plans.

He's shirtless, which my brain registers with the kind of clinical detachment I usually reserve for spreadsheet analysis. Broad shoulders taper down to a lean waist, and there's something about the way he moves—fluid and purposeful—that suggests he's comfortable in his own skin in a way that most people spend years trying to achieve.

He's painting.

The easel stands angled toward the windows, catching the same golden afternoon light that's warming my face through Vivian's glass. His dark hair falls across his forehead as he leans in to add detail to whatever masterpiece he's creating, and when he steps back to assess his work, I catch a glimpse of his profile.

Strong jaw. The kind of nose that probably looked distinguished rather than broken after whatever sport had rearranged it. And even from this distance, there's an intensity to his focus that speaks to someone who takes his craft seriously.

I should look away. Should get back to cataloging the items Vivian left behind and figuring out which of her china patterns will photograph best for the website. Should definitely not be standing here like some kind of voyeuristic neighborhood watch captain, studying the painting habits of a stranger.

But apparently my feet have other ideas, because they stay planted firmly in place while my eyes continue their unauthorized reconnaissance mission.

He sets down his brush and reaches for what looks like a rag, wiping paint from his hands with movements that are somehow both practical and graceful. There's something mesmerizing about watching someone completely absorbed in their work, unguarded and authentic in a way that's rare in my world of client presentations and quarterly reviews.

The afternoon light shifts, sending shadows dancing across his studio space, and he moves to adjust something on the easel. The motion gives me a better view of whatever he's working on, though from this distance I can only make out splashes of color that might be a landscape or abstract or possibly a portrait of his grocery list for all I know.

A gust of wind rattles the window I'm leaning against, and the sound jolts me back to reality. I step away from the glass quickly, heat crawling up my neck as I realize I've been standing here for who knows how long, watching this man like he's my own personal art installation.

"Get it together, Julia," I mutter, turning back toward the room and the very real, very non-shirtless tasks waiting for my attention.

But as I make my way toward the kitchen to check on the appliances, my eyes drift back to that window. Just a quick glance, I tell myself. Just to see if he's still there.

He is. Still painting, still beautifully unaware that his new neighbor has apparently developed the observational skills of a nature documentary filmmaker.

I force myself to focus on the kitchen, opening cabinets and checking the contents of Vivian's spice rack. Most of it will need to be replaced—cardamom from 2019 probably won't impress any guests—but her collection of vintage mixing bowls and copper pots could definitely stay. They add character, the kind of authentic charm that boutique hotels pay interior designers thousands of dollars to fake.

But even as I'm mentally calculating the cost of restocking the pantry, part of my brain keeps circling back to the man next door. Who is he? How long has he lived there? And more importantly, why am I suddenly so interested in the daily routine of someone whose name I don't even know?

I move on to the dining room, testing the stability of Vivian's antique table and checking the condition of her good china. The afternoon light continues to shift and change, and every time I pass a window that faces his direction, I find myself glancing over. Not staring, just a quick look to see if he's still in his studio.

He's moved to a different position now, working on what appears to be the upper portion of his canvas. The late afternoon sun has turned his studio into a golden fishbowl, and I have to admit that the whole scene—artist at work, dramatic lighting, architectural backdrop—would make for incredible photography.

If I were the type of person who took pictures of strangers without their permission. Which I'm absolutely not.

The rational part of my brain points out that I have actual work to do. Guest rooms to inspect, linens to inventory, and a business plan to finalize before I run out of savings and have to crawl back to my old job with my tail between my legs. The last thing I need is to get distracted by some attractive neighbor who probably doesn't even know I exist.

But as I head upstairs to check on the guest bathrooms, I can't help but notice that the second-floor windows offer an even better view of his studio.

Just for reference, of course. In case I need to know which direction gets the best light for my own future projects.