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Even across the water, his gaze hit me like a physical thing.

My pulse quickened, and I found myself holding my breath.

Those eyes—blue enough to rival the lake itself—locked onto mine with unsettling directness.

Something in his stance made me want to both retreat and step closer.

The hammer hung loosely from one hand, his chest rising and falling with exertion in the thick evening air.

I backed away hastily, nearly tripping over a coil of rope. By the time I'd regained my balance, he'd returned to his task, but not before I caught the hint of amusement at the corners of his mouth.

Fantastic. Less than an hour in town and already providing entertainment for the locals.

As I retreated to my cabin, my body hummed with an awareness I'd nearly forgotten existed. The last thing my carefully constructed hideout needed was distraction in the form of six-plus feet of mountain-hewn male perfection next door.

Restlessness drove me outdoors again after nightfall. The resort welcome packet mentioned boat rentals at the main dock, and a sunset cruise promised the perfect reconnaissance mission—plus the hope of catching a cooling breeze off the water.

I changed into a sundress thin enough for the heat but modest enough for public appearance. The lightweight fabric still clung uncomfortably to my damp skin as I walked the path to the resort's main area, making me feel more exposed than appropriate despite the modest cut.

The main dock buzzed with early evening activity—families corralling children and equipment after day trips, couples embarking on sunset cruises.

An older man with leathery skin helped me select a small motorboat, rattling off instructions my anxiety-addled brain half-registered while my eyes performed their now-habitual sweep for anyone paying undue attention.

"Just bring her back before dusk settles in," he concluded, dropping the key into my palm. "Lake gets tricky to navigate after sunset if you don't know the underwater geography."

"No problem," I assured him, projecting confidence I didn't remotely feel. How difficult could it be to pilot a glorified bathtub with an outboard motor attached?

Twenty minutes later, I had my humbling answer.

The boat itself wasn't the issue. Starting had been straightforward enough. It was the stopping—or rather, steering while attempting to stop—that presented the challenge. Specifically, my inability to maneuver away from a menacing outcrop of rocks I was drifting toward with increasing speed.

"And here, folks, is what we call 'dead air'—that exquisite moment when you realize you have precisely zero idea what happens next," I said aloud, falling back on humor as my anxiety flared.

I jammed the throttle into what I hoped was reverse. The boat lurched sideways, bringing the rocks into knife-edge focus. I cut the engine entirely, praying physics might intervene, but a treacherous breeze nudged me steadily toward what promised to be a mortifying shipwreck.

Just as I contemplated the indignity of shouting for shoreline assistance, another boat appeared, cutting through the water with confident ease. Its captain handled the craft like someone born to it, killing the engine and gliding alongside my floundering vessel with irritating precision.

To my dismay, it was Dock Neighbor, now sporting a threadbare navy t-shirt that did absolutely nothing to diminish his impact.

Up close, I realized he was older than I'd initially judged—mid-thirties probably, with features that balanced rugged angles against unexpected gentleness around the eyes.

His eyes, now narrowed slightly, were the impossible blue of deep water.

Scattered freckles dusted his nose and cheekbones, somehow making him even more appealing.

"Engine trouble?" he asked, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated across the water and seemed to resonate somewhere low in my body.

"Operator incompetence," I admitted, refusing to shrink despite the heat crawling up my neck. "Evidently my broadcasting skills don't translate to nautical ventures."

Something flashed across his features—a hint of recognition?—before his expression closed into neutral territory. "You're drifting into Miller's Rocks."

"The rocks weren't on my itinerary," I replied, grasping for dignity despite my ridiculous predicament.

He exhaled, reaching for a coiled rope at his feet. "Line. Secure it to that cleat near the bow."

The rope arced perfectly across my boat. I snatched it, fumbling with the knot he'd described.

"Not like—" He cut himself off with a slight shake of his head. "Let me."

He maneuvered his boat alongside mine, then vaulted across the gap with the easy confidence of someone who'd made that jump a thousand times before.

The boat's dimensions seemed to shrink around his presence.

He smelled of sun-warmed skin, cedar, and whatever that male pheromone was that bypassed my brain entirely and headed straight for more primitive regions.

He secured the rope with weathered, capable hands.

When our fingers brushed accidentally, a jolt ran between us that had nothing to do with static.

His eyes flicked to mine, acknowledging the contact before refocusing on the task.

I was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of how my dress clung to my skin, how the thin fabric left little to the imagination after hours in the heat. His proximity made it hard to breathe, the air between us charged with something beyond the day's lingering warmth.

"Noah Sterling," he said as he moved to examine the engine. "Local. You're in Cabin 7?"

Not a question. He knew precisely where I was staying, which confirmed he was my immediate neighbor. Wonderful.

"Didi," I replied, offering only my nickname. "Just drove in from Chicago. For vacation," I added, the lie coming easily after weeks of crafting cover stories.

"Hmm." The sound carried volumes of skepticism as he inspected the controls. "Gear's stuck. Push here. All the way."

He demonstrated with a quick adjustment, then stepped away. "Try it now."

I followed his instruction, and the boat responded smoothly, edging away from the looming rocks.

"Thank you," I managed, genuine gratitude wrestling with wounded pride. "I would have sorted it out eventually, but... I appreciate the intervention."

"Eventually might have been after you'd given Miller's Rocks a new paint job," he observed, voice dry as kindling. "Lake turns treacherous fast."

His tone carried something beyond mere condescension—the weariness of someone who'd fished too many careless tourists from these waters.

"I'll bear that in mind," I replied, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "I'm grateful for the rescue, but I can handle myself."

His expression shifted, those blue eyes taking me in with a thoroughness that felt almost physical. "Where's your life jacket?"

I glanced down, noting with chagrin the life jacket I'd stashed beneath the seat instead of wearing.

"Oops. I'm typically more cautious," I said, which was sort of true.

"Most people are, until they aren't," he replied with cryptic finality, then nodded toward shore. "Follow my wake back."

Without awaiting response, he leapt back to his own vessel with a grace that defied his size, fired up the engine, and began a measured course toward the resort's main dock.

I followed, torn between annoyance and unwanted fascination with my surly mountain man savior.

Everything about him screamed law enforcement or military—the keen eyes, the efficient movements, the rapid assessment of the situation.

Exactly the type of person I didn't need scrutinizing my hastily constructed cover story and risking unwanted attention.

Back at the dock, he secured my boat with minimal conversation, his hands working knots I couldn't have managed with an instructional video and three practice sessions. I couldn't help noticing how his wet shirt clung to his torso, outlining every ridge of muscle across his chest and abdomen.

"Thank you again," I offered as we stepped onto the main dock. "For the timely rescue and impromptu boating lesson."

"Just doing my job," he replied, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Can't have tourists drowning in our lake."

"I wasn't going to drown," I protested. "Shipwreck, certainly. Mild humiliation, definitely. But drowning seemed like an outside possibility."

That almost-smile deepened fractionally. "Tell that to Miller's Rocks."

Before I could muster a suitably cutting retort, he nodded once. "Welcome to Hope Peak, Didi from Chicago. Watch yourself out there." His tone carried a weight beyond casual advice—more professional assessment than neighborly concern.

With that enigmatic parting shot, he turned and strode away, leaving me with the uncomfortable certainty that he'd learned more from our brief encounter than I'd intended to reveal.

I returned to my cabin as twilight bled into darkness, trying to shake our encounter from my thoughts. Inside, the messages awaiting on my phone jolted me back to harsh reality.

Jamie had texted five times in escalating urgency:

Update: Security footage shows someone leaving another package at the station for you.

Police reviewing but still can't ID the guy.

Contents: CD with a mix of songs about "destiny" and "forever love" + a collage of photos of you from station events. Creepy.

Management finally taking it seriously.

CALL ME.

My stomach tightened with familiar anxiety, but not terror. I sank onto the sofa, grateful for the distance between me and Chicago.

I called Jamie immediately. Our conversation was brief but resolute.

The station had finally agreed to involve a private investigator after this latest incident, since the police hadn't been able to identify ChicagoNightOwl from the partial security footage.

Security had been enhanced at the building entrances.

My "vacation" cover remained intact—as far as anyone knew, I was taking a much-needed break at an undisclosed location after a stressful year.

After hanging up, I moved through the cabin methodically, checking locks, drawing curtains, securing windows.

Through a sliver between kitchen drapes, movement caught my eye—Noah, standing on his deck, phone pressed to his ear, gaze sweeping the property with the unmistakable attention of a professional rather than casual interest.

Watching.

I dropped the curtain, pulse quickening. The rational part of my brain insisted it was innocent—just a neighbor noting lights in a previously vacant cabin. Not everyone harbored ulterior motives. Not everyone was like my obsessive fan, lurking in shadows and leaving unwanted "gifts."

But as I double-checked the locks before bed, unease flickered through me.

I'd wedged myself between two perplexing situations: the threat I'd fled Chicago to escape, and something altogether different but equally unsettling next door—a man whose watchful eyes might see more than I wanted anyone to know.

I'd come to Hope Peak seeking sanctuary and solitude. Instead, I'd landed myself between a persistent admirer with boundary issues and a neighbor whose too-perceptive eyes seemed to see right through me.

So much for hiding in plain sight.

And worst of all? As I slipped between sheets still warm from the day's heat, it wasn't fear of my stalker that kept me awake, but the memory of sun-bronzed skin, impossible blue eyes, and the electric touch of Noah Sterling's hand against mine.

I'd fled Chicago to escape one man's unwanted attention, only to find myself unable to stop thinking about another's.