Finding Red

Chapter One-Welcome to the neighborhood!

The sound of shifting metal and slamming truck doors shattered the quiet morning, echoing up the narrow cul-de-sac like a warning. Isabel stirred beneath the heavy quilt, her brow furrowing before she groaned softly and turned away from the window.

A familiar voice drifted through the fog of her sleep. "There's my angel."

Her eyes blinked open to see Bryan standing beside the bed, sunlight catching the edge of his polished smile. In one hand, he held her coffee, just the way she liked it—black, hot, and quietly demanding. In the other, a small collection of pills rested in his palm like candy-coated secrets.

"And I see you brought breakfast," she muttered dryly, pushing herself upright. Her voice was hoarse from sleep, her limbs reluctant to move.

"I know you hate them, love," Bryan said gently, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was precise, practiced. "But doctor's orders."

"Right," she said, taking the pills in one swift motion and washing them down with the bitter brew. A grimace twitched at the corner of her lips, but she said nothing more.

Bryan smiled with something too soft to be pity and too patient to be love. "I've got a late surgery tonight," he said as he crossed to the closet. The crisp fabric of his tailored coat whispered as he pulled it from the hanger.

"I'll probably just work on the garden," Isabel replied, though her voice lacked any real conviction. "Or try to, if whoever's moving in would keep it down."

He chuckled, slipping on his coat. "They've been at it since dawn. Some city guy, from the looks of it. Just ignore the noise, okay? And don't overdo it. Remember..."

"Doctor's orders," she finished, mimicking his earlier tone with a raised brow.

"Love you." He leaned in and kissed her forehead, already halfway out the door when his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then back at her. "Your mom's coming by around ten."

"Of course she is." Isabel gave him a tight smile, the kind she reserved for things she couldn't change.

When the door finally shut behind him, she let out a long sigh and sank back against the pillows. Another loud bang from outside rattled the windowpane, followed by the unmistakable sound of a man's voice—low, rough, unfamiliar.

"Fantastic," she muttered, setting her coffee down and dragging a pillow over her face as if it could block out not only the noise, but the vague, unshakable unease settling in her chest.

The floor was cold against her bare feet as Isabel padded into the kitchen, mug in hand, chasing the bottom of her first cup of coffee like it might hold the answer to why her head always felt heavy by mid-morning. She poured herself another, steam rising in lazy spirals, and took a deep inhale as if caffeine alone could chase away the strange, unsettled feeling clinging to her chest.

Then she heard it again—that voice. Rough. Sharp-edged. Unapologetically male.

"Watch it, for fuck's sake. That box has glass in it!"

Isabel frowned and turned toward the window above the sink, the one that gave a perfect view of the house next door. Her gaze landed on him. The mysterious new neighbor.

He stood by the moving truck, commanding the chaos like some tattooed god of mayhem. His jeans were worn, and the white tank top clung to his sweat-slicked chest in all the right places. Muscles shifted beneath it as he moved, tension wound tight in his arms as he gestured sharply at the movers.

And those arms. Dear God. They were covered in tattoos—ink swirling over biceps and forearms, crawling up his neck like whispers of a life she couldn't even begin to imagine.