Her Divorcee Neighbor Claims Her in the Darkroom

Brigitte stacked the last of the moving boxes against the garage wall and wiped sweat from her collarbone with the hem of her tank top. Twenty-eight, freshly divorced, and already half in love with the quiet suburban street that smelled of cut grass and possibility. The settlement had bought her this little craft-style bungalow and the darkroom equipment she had crated with almost religious care. She needed the silence. She needed to shoot again without someone else’s opinions bleeding into every frame.

She didn’t expect the silence to shatter the second she stepped onto the driveway.

Hugo was hauling a bag of mulch from his own garage next door, shirt off, jeans low on his hips, silver threading the dark hair at his temples. Forty-two looked fucking lethal on him. Brigitte froze with a box of lenses in her arms. Her best friend’s father. Monica’s dad. The man who had driven them both to soccer practice a decade ago, who had once ruffled her hair and called her “kiddo” while Monica rolled her eyes. The same man whose broad back she had stared at during every summer barbecue, pretending she wasn’t wet.

He turned. Saw her. The bag of mulch hit the concrete with a soft thud.

“Brigitte.” His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet. “Jesus. You’re the new neighbor?”

She managed a crooked smile. “Surprise.”