I lean back in my chair and throw my legs up on the bannister of my deck. I look out over the white capped mountains and breathe the crisp morning air into my lungs. When I moved to Whitefish, Montana, I wasn’t sure what I’d find. I just wanted away from Virginia. I needed away, for safety and for my own sanity. Other people might say their families are killing them off, but the stress and the pressures from mine truly was. I had to cut myself away from them. I took off in the middle of the night driving and I literally had no idea where I’d end up. I just knew I needed to get away.

If you were to ask me, I couldn’t for the life of me tell you how I ended up in Whitefish. I just know that it’s such a small town that you barely see it on the map. I know that there’s no major retail stores, no chain restaurants, no big motels… nothing.

Whitefish exists against the odds. It’s a town where over seventy percent of the residents rent their homes out through the year to people looking to get off the grid, who enjoy fishing, hunting or skiing. That’s about it. The ones that remain in town, do it out of pure stubbornness.

I guess that’s why I like it so much. If there’s one thing my dark red hair and green eyes have taught me, it is to embrace my Irish roots and dig in when I feel like it’s worth it—and to me, Whitefish definitely is.

I live in a quiet part of Whitefish, on the outskirts of the actual town. It’s a nice gated community, which might be stupid, but it makes me feel safer somehow—never mind the guard is old enough to be my grandfather. I live in an attached duplex. The whole community is a series of duplexes actually. Though there’s only six homes in total—making three buildings. There’s some empty land that I assume the owner was going to build on. But considering two of the units are up for sale now, I don’t see him doing that soon. My unit is nice. The downstairs consists of a living room, a laundry room and bathroom. Upstairs there are two bedrooms and yeah, they’re a little small but, I’m the only one that lives here, so, it’s not an issue. There is also a huge kitchen upstairs and my deck comes off of it and faces a beautiful mountain line that I love. The deck also includes a door to my bedroom and is probably the entire reason I bought the place and decided to put down roots here. I don’t regret it—not even a little. Moments like this one, is exactly why I did.

I close my eyes as I take a drink of hot chocolate and cross my feet at the ankles. I open them back up and look at my warm, woolen off white socks with red and blue snowflakes printed on them. They’re warm and toasty and one of my first purchases at the Whitefish General Store. I bought them right before I asked the owner for a job. For some reason he hired me on the spot and was a big reason that I searched out a home to buy. I was tired of running, tired of moving and I needed a place to call my own.

The thought reminds me however that I don’t have time to enjoy the morning air as long as I usually do. I look at my watch and frown, getting up. I have to be at work in the next hour. The snow is only on the ridgeline, but that doesn’t mean ski traffic won’t be picking up soon. That’s probably the only drawback to Whitefish. I get up and go through the motions of getting ready, making sure the doors to the deck are locked and all of the windows are locked. I freshen up and fix my hair, frowning when I look in the mirror. I’ve been here for six months and you would think in that time that some of the black lines under my eyes would have disappeared.

I wonder if they ever will.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the towels draped on the towel bar are not straight. I fix them back on reflex, making sure all the lines are straight and that nothing is off kilter. I hate myself as I do it, but some lessons are engrained too deeply to leave you.

I walk down the stairs and to my front door without thinking—it’s just become my normal routine. I’m locking my front door when I hear a truck pull into the garage attached to mine. I frown. I was told that side of the duplex was owned, but as long as I’ve been here the owner has never shown up. I frown because from the looks of it the person is here to stay. He’s driving an old Ford truck and the bed is packed full of crap and it’s pulling a box trailer. Hopefully it’s a nice family.

I walk toward my garage, pasting a smile on my face. A guy gets out of the driver’s side and I take a step back despite having my lane of the garage and his truck between us. He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. His face looks like it was lovingly chiseled from stone by a master. He has long dirty blonde hair, pulled up tight on his head with bright streaks in it that you can tell was put there by the sun, not a hairdresser. He’s tall and lanky, but at the same time he’s got broad shoulders that pull his white t-shirt tight in a way that you can see his muscles, despite the flannel long sleeved shirt he’s wearing over it. He’s beautiful. That’s not what makes me relax and feel more comfortable around him, however. That would be the small little dynamo that stumbles out of the passenger side of the truck.

He’s a replica of the man, except his face is sweeter and he has green eyes where the man has brown. The little boy’s hair is exactly like his father’s maybe a tad lighter. It’s not long but it could definitely use a cut. As he bounces from the truck holding a stuffed dinosaur, his bangs fall into his eyes.

He looks up at me almost instantly and my heart melts. He’s the most adorable little boy I’ve ever seen.

“Hi!” he says, and I grin, going down on my knees so that I’m more his height. “I’m Ryan!”

“Hello there,” I say with a smile, holding my hand on my forehead to shield me from the sun. “I’m Rory.”

“Rory’s a pretty name,” he responds. “We’re moving here,” he announces, and I frown because he doesn’t seem really happy about it.

“Looks like we’re going to be neighbors then. Because I live right here too.”

“That’s cool,” he says. “How old—”

“Ryan! Get over here now,” the man says harshly. I jerk at the coldness in his voice.

How can anyone sound that cold when dealing with this little cutie?

“Daddy! We have a nay-bore!”

“No, we don’t,” the man says and I stand up, reading something in his voice—something I don’t like—but also, something that warns me to prepare. “Get up in the truck for a minute and play okay? I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, Daddy,” the little boy says, back to being sad. I watch as the man lifts him up into the bed of the truck. There’s not much room in there, but he finds him a spot and proceeds to play with his dinosaur.

“Can I speak with you a moment over here?” he asks, but he uses a tone that makes me almost certain it’s not a question.

He wants to talk to me and he’s going to do it. We walk to the edge of the driveway and that’s when I know for certain that I am definitely not going to like my new neighbor—no matter how handsome he is.

“Listen, I don’t know what your game is—”

“My game?” I ask shocked and more than a little confused.

“Exactly. What you need to know is that I don’t want this.”

“Don’t want this?” I repeat like a damn parrot. Maybe I’m completely dense, but I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“I don’t want to be friends with you. I don’t want you to be friends with my son. I don’t want to talk to you and I really don’t want you to talk to my child. We are not going to be friends, we will barely be neighbors. Do you understand?”

“Oh, I think I’m getting the picture,” I tell him, coolly.

I get the picture that you’re a freaking asshole!

“Good. Now that we’ve got that clear just remember one thing,” he says, already walking away.

“What’s that?” I ask, unable to resist.

“You stay away from us and everything will be fine,” he says and I don’t think I’m imagining the warning in his voice at all.

Looks like my great morning has taken a complete nosedive. I clear my throat and walk to my car, getting inside. As I adjust my mirrors, I catch sight of the little boy looking over at me his eyes full of sadness and my heart squeezes. I try and give him a reassuring smile. He doesn’t really respond, but then with his father so close by, maybe he’s afraid to.

I back out and look up as I put the car into drive. The man has his son in his arms and he’s smiling as he looks at him. It’s an almost tender smile—which is completely at odds with what I just saw from him. It does manage to make me feel a little better—at least about the boy.

It sure doesn’t mean I’m going to enjoy having them living next door.

I hope this isn’t a sign that I settled in Whitefish way too soon…

Maybe I should have kept going until I reached Alaska?