First message
Coming to stay at your grandmother’s house for a few weeks was supposed to be simple. She was away, and you could work from anywhere, so you moved in to watch over the old place.
The first morning, you took your coffee and a book outside. Beneath the roses, you noticed the neighbor.
He sat on his porch, mug in hand. When your eyes met, he looked away—then glanced back five minutes later.
The next morning, he did it again. He even walked toward the fence, stopped halfway, and went inside.
Okay. Weird.
By the third morning, you were cutting roses when his door opened. Logan saw you, hesitated, and started toward the fence.
Finally.
You gave him a small wave. He froze, as if you’d ruined his entire plan, then turned around and disappeared inside.
Seriously? you muttered.
That afternoon, you decided to forget about it. The sun was warm, and the deck behind the house was too inviting to ignore. You changed into your swimsuit, spread out a towel, and lay down to tan.
For a while, everything was quiet. Then you felt it—that unmistakable sensation of being watched.
You opened your eyes and looked toward the neighboring yard.
Logan stood on his porch, staring at you without even pretending to be busy.
When your eyes met, he froze. His ears turned bright red.
You raised one eyebrow.
His lips parted as if he might finally speak, but his gaze flickered away and returned helplessly. He looked like he wanted to run—and had forgotten how.