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cilla

I tug my cardigan tighter as the coastal breeze whips through Cedar Bay's town square. After three months here, I still haven't adjusted to how the wind carries a persistent chill, even on sunny days like this one.

The farmer's market stalls form a cheerful labyrinth around the square's central gazebo, and I navigate between locals who all seem to know each other with practiced familiarity. Meanwhile, I'm still at that awkward stage where I recognize faces but struggle with names.

"Those apple tarts are divine," I say, eyeing the Sweetie's Bakery booth display. Michele said to bring whatever I want to book club, but first impressions matter, and showing up with store-bought cookies feels like admitting defeat before I've even started.

"You should try the hazelnut croissants," says a voice beside me. I turn to find a woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a Cedar Bay Elementary sweatshirt. "I'm Judith, by the way. You're the new one who bought the Callahan place, right?"

"Cilla," I offer, shaking her outstretched hand. "And yes, I'm still finding paint chips in my hair from the bedroom remodel."

"Well, Cilla," she says, her smile widening to something that immediately puts me on guard, "my son Ryan just moved back to town after finishing his residency in Portland. Doctor Ryan," she adds with a wink that makes my stomach clench.

Oh God. It's happening again.

"That's... nice," I manage, reaching for my wallet and signaling the bakery attendant. "I'll take six apple tarts and two hazelnut croissants, please."

"He's single," Judith continues, undeterred by my blatant attempt to end the conversation. "Very handsome. Takes after his father."

Another woman appears on my other side before I can formulate a polite rejection. "New in town?" she asks, though it's clearly not a question. "I'm Denise, Chamber of Commerce. My son Taylor runs the marina. Divorced, no kids, owns his own business." She says this like she's reading off a particularly impressive resume.

"Ladies, please," I say, forcing a laugh while accepting my pastry box. "I just moved here for some peace and quiet. I need to finish my dissertation, and I'm not exactly?—"

"Dissertation!" exclaims a third woman who has materialized from nowhere. "My Brandon has a doctorate in marine biology!"

I clutch my pastry box like a shield. Somehow, in the span of five minutes, I've gone from anonymous newcomer to potential daughter-in-law for half the mothers in Cedar Bay.

"I appreciate the... enthusiasm," I say, backing away slowly. "But I really need to get to my book club."

"At Michele's?" Denise asks. "Oh, that's perfect! Michele's brother-in-law is visiting from Seattle. He's such a nice man and works in tech. Very successful."

"Fudge," I mutter under my breath. I paste on my best professor smile—the one I use when students try to explain why their paper is late for the third time. "Ladies, you're all very kind, but I'm currently focusing on my dissertation. No time for dating."

I take three deliberate steps backward, nearly colliding with a display of local honey jars. The vendor, an elderly man with kind eyes, gives me a sympathetic look.

"You'll want to run now," he stage-whispers. "Once the Cedar Bay Matchmaking Committee sets their sights on you, resistance is futile."

"Thanks for the tip," I say, and with a quick wave to my would-be matchmakers, I pivot and speed-walk toward the edge of the square.

I hear Judith call after me, "Ryan loves books! He could join your club!"

My pace quickens to just shy of an actual run. The last thing I need is some local doctor showing up at the book club, where I was hoping to make actual friends, not potential suitors. After Jason's and his condescending "Well, actually" corrections during my dissertation presentations, I've sworn off academic men. And doctors probably have the same God complex.

As I round the corner onto Lighthouse Avenue, I nearly crash into a solid flannel and coffee scent wall.

"Whoa there, Professor," says a familiar, irritatingly charming voice. "Are those pastries in danger of escaping?"

I look up to find Rowan Malone, my infuriatingly attractive neighbor, steadying me with one hand while the other rescues my tilting pastry box.

"The pastries are fine," I say, returning the box and adjusting my glasses. "I'm escaping the town matchmakers. Apparently, being single and new makes me community property."

Rowan laughs, the sound rich and warm like the coffee he perpetually smells like. "Ah, you've met the moms of Cedar Bay. They mean well."

"So does a hurricane before it destroys your house," I mutter.

"Need an escort to Michele's? I can run interference if we encounter any more well-meaning mothers with conveniently single sons."

I narrow my eyes. "And what would you get out of playing bodyguard?"

"The pleasure of your company for three blocks," he says with that crooked smile that does not make my stomach flutter. "And maybe one of those hazelnut croissants."

"Fine," I sigh, already regretting this decision. "But this isn't a date. And you're not getting a croissant. They're for book club."

"Of course not," Rowan agrees, falling into step beside me. "Though I should warn you—Michele's been talking about setting you up with her cousin for weeks."

I stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk. "Are you freaking kidding me?"

"Cedar Bay, population 4,312. The dating pool is significantly smaller, and you're fresh meat––so to speak." He shrugs those broad shoulders, looking far too amused at my predicament. "Pretty sure there's a town ordinance requiring all single women under forty to be matched within their first six months."

"Well, they can take their ordinance and shove it up—" I glance down at my pastry box, remembering my promise to myself. "—fudging municipal code."

Rowan raises an eyebrow. "Fudging?"

"I'm trying to curb my language," I explain, resuming my walk at a slightly more dignified pace. "Birdie and Brody are starting to repeat certain words."

"Your dachshunds were... cursing?"

"They're very impressionable."

He laughs again, and I hate that I notice the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. "I've heard your 'sailor moments' when I was working on your deck. Those dogs must have quite the vocabulary."

My cheeks heat. "You eavesdropped on me?"

"Hard not to when you're dropping 'f-bombs' at your computer at all hours of the day."

I sniff. "That particular word is perfectly acceptable for canine ears. It sounds like bark."

We turn onto Driftwood Lane, where Michele's cute bungalow sits three doors down from mine. The street is quiet except for the distant sound of waves against the shore and the occasional seagull cry.

"What's the book?" Rowan asks, nodding toward the worn paperback peeking out of my bag.

"'Seduced at Sundown'," I reply. "It's a historical thing." I avert my eyes and stop before admitting it's a spicy romance. Although, he'd need to be an idiot not to come to that conclusion on his own.

"Sounds steamy." Rowan laughs. "Who seduces who?"

I stop again, narrowing my eyes. "I haven't read that far. And that's really none of your business."

"Okay," Rowan holds his palms out in mock surrender. "You don't have to give me your murder face."

"I do not have a murder face!"

"You absolutely do. You wear it whenever you're grading papers in your office late at night, and it's the same face you make when I suggest we grab coffee sometime. It's terrifying, by the way."

I roll my eyes and resume walking. "That's my 'please stop asking' face."

"Which I would respect," he says, his tone shifting to something more genuine, "if I thought you meant it."

His words catch me off guard, and I glance up at him. Bad idea. His hazel eyes are warm in the afternoon sun, and there's none of his usual teasing in his expression.

"Rowan—"

"I know, I know," he says, holding up his hands in surrender. "You're busy. Dissertation. Teaching. Dogs with potty mouths. No time for dating. But..." He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking boyishly uncertain for the first time since I've known him. "Just coffee. As neighbors. That's all I'm asking."

We've reached Michele's front gate, and I hesitate, pastry box clutched to my chest like armor. The problem isn't that I don't want to have coffee with Rowan. The problem is that I do. And that's dangerous territory.

"Let me think about it," I say finally, which is more than I've given him in the three months I've lived here.

His face brightens immediately. "Really?"

"Don't look so smug. It's not a yes."

"But it's not a no," he points out, that infuriating dimple appearing on his left cheek. "I'll take it."

Before I can respond, Michele's front door swings open. "Cilla! You're just in time! Oh, and you brought Rowan!" She claps her hands together like this is the most delightful surprise imaginable. "You should join us! We're discussing a particularly steamy scene in chapter twelve."

"He absolutely should not," I say quickly. "Rowan was just?—"

"Walking the professor safely past the matchmaking gauntlet," he finishes for me. "Though the offer is tempting."

Michele winks at him. "I bet it is. Those romance novels get quite educational."

"For the love of—" I start.

"I'll let you ladies enjoy your book club," Rowan says, backing away with a grin that makes my stomach do a completely unauthorized flip. "Cilla, think about that coffee."

"What coffee?" Michele asks, her eyes lighting up with interest.

"Nothing," I say, pushing past her into the house. "Just neighborly harassment."

"Harassment, hmm?" Michele follows me inside, closing the door behind us. "Is that what we're calling sexual tension these days?"

"There is no tension," I insist, setting the pastry box on her dining table where three other women are already seated. "Sexual or otherwise."

"Honey," says a woman I recognize as the librarian, Greta, "I could feel the tension from in here. And I'm practically blind without my contacts."

I feel my cheeks burning. "Can we please talk about the book? I have notes on the historical inaccuracies in the Duke's wardrobe."

The women exchange knowing looks but mercifully drop the subject as I distribute pastries. As I take my seat, my phone buzzes with a text.

Unknown Number: In case you decide on that coffee. Enjoy your book club, Professor. Try not to corrupt those dachshunds with any new vocabulary. - R

I quickly slip my phone back into my pocket, fighting the smile that threatens to betray me.

"So," Michele says, opening her book with dramatic flair, "shall we discuss how the Duke managed to untie all those corset strings while one hand caressed her breasts?"

I choke on my first bite of apple tart as the group dissolves into giggles. This is why I need female friends. Three months of Rowan's flirtation and my dissertation research have left me craving ordinary conversation that doesn't involve European history or deflecting compliments.

"I have questions about the historical accuracy," I begin, pulling out my notebook where I've jotted down anachronisms.

"Of course you do," Michele says with an affectionate eye roll. "Our resident historian can't help herself."

"The buttons on his waistcoat weren't introduced until?—"

"Cilla," Greta interrupts gently, "we love your historical insights, but first, we need to discuss that scorching scene in the library." She fans herself with her paperback. "And then you need to tell us about the man trying to get your attention since you moved in."

I sink lower in my chair. "There's nothing to tell."

"That's not what I've heard," says a redhead whose name I think is Penny. "My husband works for Cedar Bay Construction. He says Rowan hasn't dated anyone in months, which is apparently some kind of record. You know he's the catch of Cedar Bay. I think every woman in town has had a crush on him at some point in time."

"He's just being neighborly," I insist, though my traitorous heart beats a little faster.

"Neighborly is bringing over a casserole when you move in," Michele says. "Not finding excuses to walk past your house every morning or offering to rebuild your entire deck for free."

"He did what now?" Greta leans forward, eyes wide behind her glasses.

"It wasn't free," I clarify. "I paid for materials."

"Honey, that man charges $75 an hour for labor," Penny says. "Trust me, he wasn't doing it for the money."

I fidget with my napkin. "Can we please return to the Duke's historically inaccurate buttons?"

"Fine," Michele sighs dramatically. "But first, a toast." She raises her wine glass. "To new friends, steamy Dukes, and the men who rebuild our decks while we pretend not to notice them."

"I notice him," I mutter, accepting a glass of wine. "That's the problem."

The women erupt in victorious laughter, and I realize I've walked right into their trap. I should have stuck with the buttons.

"I knew it!" Michele crows. "Pay up, ladies."

To my horror, both Greta and Penny reach for their purses.

"You were betting on me?" I sputter.

"On whether you'd admit you're attracted to him before the end of the book club," Greta explains, passing a twenty to Michele. "I thought you'd hold out longer."