“You’ll Be Mine Eventually”

I thought she was just a spoiled rich girl chasing…

I thought she was just a spoiled rich girl chasing a rough man for excitement.

I was wrong.

Because by Thanksgiving, her father would offer to buy my silence.

And Emily would burn his whole kingdom down.

PART 1

“You’ll be mine eventually,” Emily Whitaker said, while broken glass still glittered across her living room floor.

I stared at her like she had lost her mind.

Three hours earlier, I had barely known her name.

By midnight, I had dragged her drunk ex-boyfriend out of her house, called the police, checked every lock, and watched her try not to shake in front of two officers who clearly knew her father’s last name.

That was the first thing I learned about Emily.

She was terrified.

But she hated looking weak even more.

The first time I met her, she stood on my porch holding a peach pie like a woman who had been taught kindness out of a Southern etiquette book.

I had just gotten home from work outside Nashville, still in my boots, dust on my jeans, one grocery bag hanging off my wrist.

My small rented house sat at the end of a quiet street.

Two bedrooms.

A cracked driveway.

An old truck.

A porch swing I never used.

The house next door had been empty until a moving truck showed up and blocked half the street.

Two days later, that empty house looked like a magazine had thrown money at it.

Fresh paint.

New mailbox.

Trimmed lawn.

White shutters.

Then Emily appeared.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Emily. I moved in next door.”

I looked at the pie.

“Is that a bribe or an apology?”

She laughed.

“New neighbor gift. My mom says people appreciate gestures.”

“Your mom sounds confident.”

“She’s committed to being right.”

I took the pie because refusing homemade dessert felt like starting a war.

“I’m Nathan Cole.”

“Nice to meet you, Nathan.”

She smiled like she expected me to say more.

I didn’t.

At thirty-six, I had already learned that smiling women could carry knives you never saw coming.

My ex-wife, Lauren, had smiled through seven years of marriage while building a second life behind my back. She told people I was cold. Distant. Practical. Like loving her had been a prison sentence she barely survived.

I paid the mortgage.

Fixed the leaks.

Worked overtime.

Trusted her.

Apparently, that made me stupid.

So after the divorce, I stopped making room for romance.

I worked.

I came home.

I ate microwave dinners.

I kept my life quiet enough that nobody could wreck it without my permission.

Emily shifted on my porch.

“Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Probably,” I said.

Her smile thinned.

She was not used to men ending conversations before she finished charming them.

I closed the door, set the pie on my kitchen counter, and told myself that was that.

A pretty rich girl next door.

Nothing more.

For once, I almost believed myself.

Two nights later, I woke to a woman screaming.

At first, I thought it was someone’s TV.

Then glass shattered.

A male voice yelled, “Relax, princess. Daddy will buy you another one.”

I was out of bed before my brain caught up.

I pulled on jeans, crossed my yard barefoot, and found Emily’s front door half open.

Music blasted inside.

One flowerpot lay broken on the porch.

“Emily?” I called.

No answer.

Just laughter.

I pushed the door open.

Her living room looked like a college party had been thrown into a furniture store with a baseball bat.

A lamp was smashed.

Couch cushions were on the floor.

A framed photo lay cracked near the fireplace.

Emily stood by the kitchen island, one hand pressed to her mouth.

Three people were inside with her.

Two men.

One woman.

One of the men held a framed picture like he was deciding whether to throw it.

He turned toward me.

“Can we help you?”

“I’m here for the noise complaint.”

He looked me over.

I’m six-two, not huge, but I work with my hands, and angry men usually do the math before trying me.

He smirked anyway.

“Private house, man.”

“Then privately leave.”

Emily’s voice cracked.

“Nathan, it’s okay.”

“No,” I said. “It isn’t.”

The second guy stepped toward me.

“You need to go.”

I pointed at the door.

“You first.”

He grabbed for my shirt.

Bad choice.

I caught his wrist, turned him into the wall, and held him there just hard enough for the message to arrive.

“You’re leaving,” I said. “With your teeth where they are.”

The guy with the picture laughed nervously.

Emily whispered, “Jason, please just go.”

Of course his name was Jason.

He looked exactly like every bad decision that ever asked to borrow money.

Jason grabbed his jacket.

“You’re being dramatic, Em.”

I looked around the destroyed room.

“Solid review from the man bullying a lamp.”

He stepped toward Emily.

“We’re not done.”

I moved between them.

“Yes, you are.”

Something in my voice finally convinced him.

They left cussing and slammed the door so hard another picture fell.

I followed them to the porch and watched their black sedan roll out of the driveway.

Then I turned back.

Emily stood in the middle of the wreckage, arms folded tight, face pale.

“I’m calling the police,” I said.

“No. Please.”

“Emily—”

“My parents will find out.”

“They should.”

She looked down.

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand three people were in your house breaking your things because they think money makes consequences optional.”

That landed.

She flinched.

I called anyway.

When the police came, Emily gave them a trimmed version.

I gave them the rest.

Jason’s name.

The threats.

The broken property.

The way he had tried to intimidate her.

One officer asked if there were cameras.

Emily hesitated.

I noticed.

So did the cop.

“Porch camera,” she admitted. “Living room security, too. My dad installed the system.”

“Good,” I said.

She looked at me.

For the first time, I saw the anger under the fear.

After the officers left, she tried to pick up broken glass barefoot.

“Shoes,” I said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

She looked down at a tiny cut near her heel like it belonged to someone else.

I found her slippers in the hall and nudged them over.

“Put them on.”

She did.

“Do you have someone you can call?”

“No.”

“Parents?”

“No.”

That told me enough.

She gave a humorless laugh.

“You really enjoy uncomfortable silence, don’t you?”

“I rent it out on weekends.”

That got half a smile.

Barely.

At the door, she said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re just going to leave?”

“It’s late.”

“You saved me from Jason and his drunk circus, and now you’re going to go sleep?”

“I have work in the morning.”

She stared at me.

“You’re a strange man, Nathan.”

“I’ve had practice.”

I went home.

I did not sleep.

The next morning, Emily waited by my truck with coffee.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“For dragging you into my mess.”

“You didn’t drag me. Jason’s lack of home training did.”

She held out the coffee.

“Let me make you dinner.”

“No.”

“That was fast.”

“I’m efficient.”

“It’s just dinner.”

“That sentence has ruined peaceful lives.”

She stepped in front of my truck door.

“You helped me when I was too scared to be reasonable. I want to thank you like a normal person.”

“You already said thank you.”

“With food.”

“I own a microwave.”

“Nathan.”

“No.”

She lifted the coffee.

“I also brought caffeine.”

I stared at the cup.

She smiled.

“You made that too easy.”

I took it because my principles were strong, but not stronger than coffee.

“One dinner,” she said. “Friday.”

“I’m busy.”

“With what?”

“Laundry. Avoiding people. Standing in my kitchen wondering why I bought bananas.”

Her laugh caught me off guard.