Chapter 1
The Cottage Next Door
Charlie Brooks knew she had made a mistake approximately six seconds after stepping out of the taxi.
The rain helped.
Not the gentle kind from movies where people kissed under umbrellas and discovered the meaning of life.
No.
This rain had opinions.
Cold sheets of water blasted sideways across the tiny Irish lane and immediately soaked through her jacket.
The taxi driver unloaded her suitcases from the trunk.
One tipped over.
The other landed in a puddle.
Charlie stared at the cottage she had purchased six months earlier during what she now referred to as her Temporary Loss of Good Judgment.
The online listing had promised charm.
Character.
Historic beauty.
A peaceful countryside retreat.
What stood before her looked like a building that had survived several wars and lost most of them.
The whitewashed stone walls leaned slightly.
The garden had disappeared beneath a jungle of weeds.
One shutter hung at an angle that suggested it had given up years ago.
The front gate rested on the ground.
Not attached to anything.
Just there.
Existing.
A gust of wind rattled the roof.
Charlie narrowed her eyes.
The roof rattled back.
“Well,” she said softly.
The cottage remained unconcerned.
The taxi driver shifted awkwardly.
“At least it’s standing.” Charlie looked at him.
He looked at the cottage.
Then he quickly looked away.
Not encouraging.
Not encouraging at all.
A loud crack echoed across the lane.
Charlie jumped.
One of the shutters detached itself from the house.
Completely.
It crashed into the weeds.
The taxi driver cleared his throat.
“Right then.”
He climbed into his car.
Fast.
Suspiciously fast.
Charlie watched him drive away.
Within seconds she was completely alone.
A stranger in a country she had never visited.
Standing in the rain.
Holding the keys to a cottage that appeared one strong breeze away from becoming a historical landmark.
For a moment she considered getting back on a plane.
Then she remembered why she had come.
The failed engagement.
The silence afterward.
The empty apartment.
The unfinished manuscript sitting on her laptop.
The book she couldn’t write.
The life she couldn’t seem to fix.
Starting over had sounded easier from Tennessee.
Everything sounded easier from Tennessee.
The rain intensified.
Charlie sighed.
“Okay.”
She grabbed her luggage.
“Let’s survive the first day.”
The front path squished beneath her boots.
The weeds brushed against her knees.
The key stuck in the lock.
Naturally.
After several attempts and language that would have disappointed her grandmother, the door finally swung inward.
The smell hit her first.
Dust.
Stone.
Old wood.
And something faintly floral.
The cottage was dark.
Small.
Crooked.
Perfect.
Despite everything, her chest tightened.
Because for the first time in months she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Possibility.
Then a drip landed on her head.
Charlie blinked.
Another drip followed.
She slowly looked upward.
Water leaked through the ceiling.
Directly above her.
“Of course.”
A third drip hit her nose.
The cottage seemed pleased with itself.
A knock sounded at the open doorway.
Charlie turned.
A tall man stood outside.
Rain soaked the shoulders of his dark coat.
Wind pushed through dark hair.
His expression suggested he’d been disappointed by people for years and expected very little improvement.
Blue eyes swept over the room.
The leaking ceiling.
The suitcases.
Charlie.
Then returned to the ceiling.
“That’s new.”
The accent should have been illegal.
Charlie decided this immediately.
Irish accents had absolutely no business sounding like that.
“Excuse me?”
He nodded toward the leak.
“Wasn’t doing that yesterday.” Charlie crossed her arms.
Water dripped onto her shoulder.
She ignored it.
“You inspected my leaking roof yesterday?”
“No.”
“I watched it leak from my kitchen window.” Charlie hated that answer because it was funny.
She refused to laugh.
The stranger stepped inside.
Not waiting for permission.
Not asking.
Simply entering as though the cottage belonged to him.
Which was irritating.
And somehow comforting. He glanced upward again.
“The chimney will smoke.”
“What?” “The chimney.” He pointed. “The door sticks.” Another point. “The back step’s loose.” Another.
“The kitchen window won’t stay shut.” Charlie stared.
“How do you know all that?” He looked genuinely confused. “Because I live next door.” Right.
Of course.
The neighbor.
The handsome neighbor.
The extremely handsome neighbor.
The irritatingly handsome neighbor.
Charlie already disliked this situation.
A lot.
“I’m Charlie.”
The stranger nodded once. “Declan.” Nothing else.
Just Declan.
Apparently, surnames were a privilege she had not earned.
Rain hammered against the windows.
The leak continued dripping.
Declan looked around the cottage one final time.
Then back at her.
“You bought it sight unseen, didn’t you?” Charlie sighed.
“Yes.”
Declan closed his eyes.
Not dramatically.
Just the quiet resignation of a man witnessing preventable tragedy. When he opened them again, there was the faintest hint of amusement.
“God help you.”
And for the first time since arriving in Ireland, Charlie laughed.
