My Grumpy Alpha

3

I should’ve ignored her from the start.

That would’ve been the smart thing to do—pretend she didn’t exist, act like she wasn’t my problem. Just another person passing through town, someone I could let drift past without getting involved. I had no use for neighbors, no patience for small talk, and absolutely no interest in whatever chaos she was bound to bring into my quiet life.

And yet, here I was, standing on my porch, scowling at the little yellow house next door like it had personally offended me.

Because Ivy Hart was everywhere.

Baking at odd hours of the night with her windows wide open, filling the air with the smell of sugar and citrus until it invaded my house, my skin, my thoughts.

Humming and singing like some kind of carefree little bird, her voice drifting into my space no matter how much I tried to block it out.

Wearing those ridiculous dresses—bright colors, lace, flared skirts—like she’d walked straight out of a different time. Like she belonged somewhere golden and soft, somewhere untouched by the weight of the world.

And worst of all? She smiled.

All the damn time.

It wasn’t natural. No one was that happy. No one walked around radiating warmth and light like they didn’t have a single dark thing lurking under the surface. People like that? They weren’t real.

I should’ve known better than to sit on her porch last night, drinking tea like some kind of civilized person, listening to her talk about fresh starts and regrets and color like the world wasn’t a sharp, unforgiving place.

It had been a mistake. A lapse in judgment.

One I wouldn’t make again.

So, when I saw her outside this morning, standing in her front yard in some frilly green dress, watering her little patch of flowers like she belonged here, I did the only reasonable thing.

I scowled.

And when she noticed me—because of course she did—I turned and went inside, slamming the door behind me before she could say whatever overly friendly thing was about to come out of her mouth.

I could almost hear her sigh through the damn walls.

Good. Maybe she’d take the hint.

But something told me Ivy Hart wasn’t the type to take hints.

Unfortunately for both of us, I wasn’t the type to change.

The problem was, avoiding her wasn’t easy.

The way our houses were positioned meant that I had a direct view into her kitchen from mine. The driveway I’d parked my truck in for the past five years was now right beside the spot where she kept her ridiculous little car—a vintage thing that looked like it could break down at any second but somehow never did.

And then there was the town itself. Small. Too small. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and it was impossible to go anywhere without running into someone you’d rather avoid.

Which was exactly how I ended up in this mess.

I’d gone to the corner store for one thing—coffee. That was it. A simple, quiet errand. In and out. No interactions, no unnecessary conversations.

But, of course, she was there.

Standing in front of the bakery display, debating between two different kinds of muffins like it was a life-or-death decision. Her pink hair was tied up with some polka-dotted scarf, and she was wearing a pale yellow dress with a fitted waist and a full skirt, the kind that looked like it belonged in a different decade.

She was talking.

To herself.

Muttering under her breath about lemon versus blueberry like the muffins were about to argue back.

I tried to walk past without drawing attention, but the second I reached for the coffee, she gasped like she’d just discovered some earth-shattering secret.

“Oh my God, Rowan.”

I froze. Slowly turned my head. “What?”

She pointed at me. No, not at me—at the basket in my hands. “Instant coffee? Are you serious?”

I stared at her, waiting for the rest of the joke. “What’s wrong with instant coffee?”

Ivy looked personally offended. “Everything. It’s a crime against caffeine. A tragedy.” She clutched her chest like I’d physically hurt her. “You live next door to me and you’re drinking that?”

I exhaled through my nose. “It’s coffee.”

“It’s not coffee.” She took a step closer, lowering her voice like we were conspiring about something important. “Please tell me this is an emergency situation and not a daily habit.”

I stared at her. “It’s a daily habit.”

She made a dramatic choking sound. “I can’t believe this.”

“Believe it,” I said flatly, tossing the container into my basket. “You done?”

“No.” She grabbed my arm before I could walk away, her small fingers surprisingly strong. “I refuse to let my neighbor—my grumpy, brooding, kind-of-scary neighbor—continue living like this.”

I narrowed my eyes. “How I drink my coffee is none of your business.”

She lifted her chin. “It is my business, actually. Because now I know. And I can’t un-know.”

“Ivy—”

“I love coffee,” she continued, like I hadn’t said her name through clenched teeth. “And you’re over here drinking powdered sadness when you could be having real coffee. It’s an offense to good taste.”

I didn’t have the patience for this. “Are you done?”

“Not even a little.”

I dragged a hand down my face. “I’m buying the coffee. End of discussion.”

She studied me like she was trying to determine if this was a battle she could win. Then, to my surprise, she sighed. “Fine. But I will change your mind eventually.”

I scoffed. “Doubt it.”

Ivy just smiled, like she knew something I didn’t.

And that should’ve been the end of it.

But as I turned to walk away, she called after me. “Oh, and Rowan?”

I kept walking. “What?”

“Hope you like cinnamon rolls.”

I stopped. Looked over my shoulder.

She was grinning now, all bright-eyed mischief. “I bake when I’m feeling stubborn.”

Great. Just great.

I turned away again, ignoring the way my chest tightened in some unfamiliar way.

I didn’t need this.

I didn’t need her.

So why the hell did I have a feeling she wasn’t going anywhere?