The Hot Widower Next Door

Chapter Two: Storms and Strangers

I didn’t know how long I stood there staring at him, seconds, minutes, maybe an eternity but time stretched thin between the weight of his gaze and the faint smirk tugging at his lips. His presence felt carved from marble, sculpted by something far older than the streets around us. He didn’t look away. Neither did I.

Then, as if deciding the silence had lasted long enough, he spoke.

“Humans,” he said, voice low and unhurried, “always gawking at what they don’t understand.”

The words landed like a slap. My brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged, sliding his hands into the pockets of his black coat. “I’m assuming you’re the new tenant. It’s written all over you.”

“And how’s that?” I asked, folding my arms.

“Curiosity. Naïveté. That subtle arrogance of thinking the world exists to be explained.” His gaze swept over me like he was reading a book and had already grown bored. “It’s a very… human trait.”

The nerve. The arrogance. My jaw clenched before I could stop it. “And you must be the local philosopher standing out here, enlightening the rest of us mere mortals?”

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hardly. I’m the landlord.”

My heart skipped. “What?”

“I came to inspect the apartment before the new tenant arrived.” He tilted his head. “Which, it seems, is now.”

Something inside me bristled. Maybe it was the way he said tenant, like it was a synonym for nuisance, or maybe it was the effortless confidence radiating off him. Whatever it was, I didn’t like it. At all.

“Well,” I said tightly, hoisting my suitcase past him, “you’ve inspected. Congratulations.”

“Try not to burn the place down,” he replied smoothly, stepping aside. “Humans tend to destroy the things they don’t understand.”

I bit my tongue before a sharper retort slipped out. Without another glance, I marched up the steps and into the apartment, slamming the door a little harder than necessary.

I spent the rest of the day trying — and failing — to shake him from my thoughts. Every time I unpacked a box, his voice echoed in my head.

"Humans."

Every time I walked from room to room, I heard that cool, detached tone.

"Curiosity. Naïveté."

Arrogant bastard.

I wasn’t sure what annoyed me more — the fact that he’d dismissed me without knowing a damn thing about me, or the fact that someone that sinfully handsome could be that insufferable. Maybe both. Probably both.

The phone buzzed just as I was angrily shoving clothes into a drawer. I glanced at the screen. Ty.

I swiped to answer, still fuming. “Ty, he’s so rude!!”

“Whoa, whoa — slow down,” Ty chuckled softly on the other end. “Who’s rude?”

“My landlord!” I threw myself onto the couch, gesturing wildly even though he couldn’t see me. “You should’ve seen him. He just stood there judging me, calling me naïve — naïve, Ty! Like I’m some lost child who wandered into the big bad city.”

“Cherry…” he sighed, but I didn’t stop.

“And then he had the nerve to say humans ruin things they don’t understand. Humans! Like he’s some higher species or something.” I groaned and buried my face in a pillow. “I swear, he’s the most insufferable man I’ve ever met. And the worst part? He’s… ugh, he’s so good-looking. Like, offensively good-looking. And he knows it.”

There was a small pause before Ty spoke, voice low and patient. “Babe, breathe. It’s just a landlord. You’re never going to see him except for rent and repairs. Don’t let some jerk ruin your first day.”

“I’m not letting him ruin it,” I protested, even though I clearly was. “I just hate people like that. All smug and superior. I can’t stand it.”

“I know,” Ty said gently. “But maybe he was just having a bad day. Or maybe he’s one of those people who act tough because they’re socially awkward.”

I snorted. “If he’s socially awkward, then I’m the Queen of England.”

“Then, Your Majesty,” Ty teased, “maybe ignore him and focus on unpacking. Call me if he says or does anything weird, okay?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, already feeling a little calmer. “Thanks, Ty.”

“Anytime. And hey — don’t let one arrogant landlord ruin the adventure. You’ve got this, Cherry.”

I hung up with a sigh. He’s right, I told myself. I wasn’t going to let him, what's even his name — ugh, even his name would probably sound pretentious — get under my skin. I had bigger things to focus on.

By late afternoon, my irritation had reached boiling point. I needed fresh air before I did something stupid, like throw a shoe at the wall and imagine it was his smug face. So I slipped on a light coat and stepped outside, letting Vollmond’s cold breeze sting the frustration from my cheeks.

The town was stranger than I expected. Every building looked like it had been plucked from another century, cobblestones slick with mist and narrow alleys snaking off into places I couldn’t see. The people were quieter, too — watchful in a way that made me feel like an intruder. Still, I walked. Down winding streets, past bakeries with carved wooden signs, past a clock tower that seemed to hum with age.

For a brief moment, the world felt bigger and lonelier than I’d imagined.

Then the sky darkened.

At first it was just a drizzle, soft against my cheeks, then it swelled into a downpour so sudden and fierce it felt like the heavens had cracked open. “Oh, great,” I muttered, tugging my coat tighter as I sprinted toward the apartment. Water soaked through my hair, clung to my clothes, and by the time I stumbled up the steps, I was dripping from head to toe.

But the rain wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was what greeted me when I opened the door.

The ceiling in the living room was leaking — pouring, really — in several places, water pooling across the floorboards and soaking into the carpet. My suitcase lay toppled on its side, clothes scattered and damp. One of the window frames had cracked under the pressure of the storm, letting in sheets of rain. The whole place smelled like wet plaster and decay.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groaned, running a hand through my soaked hair. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

I paced back and forth, muttering to myself, each word sharper than the last. “All this money for this? Should’ve just stayed in New York. Should’ve listened to Ty. No, Cherry, you had to be independent. You had to prove yourself. And now look — you’re living in a swimming pool.”

The frustration boiled over. Before I could second-guess it, I grabbed my phone and dialed the landlord’s number listed on the lease. He answered on the second ring.

“What?” he said flatly.

“What?” I snapped. “What is that the professional way you answer a tenant? My apartment is a disaster! The ceiling is leaking, the window’s cracked, and my belongings are soaked!”

There was a long pause. Then, maddeningly calm: “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Good,” I hissed, hanging up before he could say anything else.

True to his word, five minutes later there was a knock at the door. I yanked it open with more force than necessary, and there he was — same dark coat, same unreadable expression, same infuriating calm.

“Well?” I demanded. “See for yourself.”

He stepped inside, gaze sweeping over the damage with the dispassion of a man assessing a dented car. “Hm,” was all he said.

“Hm?” I repeated incredulously. “That’s it? Hm?”

“It’s old construction,” he replied, crouching to examine the warped floorboards. “The insulation isn’t what it used to be. Storms like this sometimes cause leaks.”

“Storms like this?!” I gestured wildly at the room. “It’s a disaster zone!”

He straightened slowly, meeting my glare without flinching. “I’ll have it repaired.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Soon isn’t good enough!” I snapped. “I can’t stay here like this. I could get sick. Everything I own is—”

“You can stay with me.”

The words froze me mid-sentence. “What?!”