Chapter 8

• Isabella.
• I didn’t go out looking for him.
• Okay, that’s a lie. I totally did. But I made it look casual. Which is, in itself, an art.
• I’d walked past Stormwood House three times this week already. Once to “get fresh air.” Once to “find inspiration.” Once to “accidentally lose track of the trail behind my house.” It’s not stalking if the road is public, right?
• Today, I had an actual excuse, which was the market. I needed eggs, which somehow I always forgot to buy. Blame it on the ADHD or my subconscious steering me toward Noah’s side of town. Either way, the dirt path that curved past his property was quickly becoming my favorite “shortcut.”
• His house peeked through thick trees. Honestly, it looked like it was playing hide and seek with Mother Nature. Stormwood wasn’t cute. It was old, looming, and unapologetically dramatic. If my cottage was the quirky sidekick, Stormwood was the mysterious anti-hero with a tragic backstory and an attic full of ghosts.
• And as I walked past, there he was in the clearing beside the house, his sleeves rolled up, shirt off and swinging an axe into a log like some brooding lumberjack.
• I stopped, not on purpose though. My feet just kind of forgot how to function. He looked more different in daylight. He looked much more human than of the moody side of him that I was used to seeing.
• He didn’t notice me. Or maybe he did and just pretended not to, which somehow made it worse.
• He lifted another log, balanced it, and slammed the axe down in a clean and effortless manner.
• And then he looked up and caught me staring.
• I panicked and gave him a light, friendly wave as if I hadn’t just been gawking at his abs like a total creep.
• His gaze didn’t break. He didn’t wave back or smile, but he didn’t look away either.
• The was this kind of heat in his gaze that made my stomach feel like it had swallowed a spark and didn’t quite know what to do with it.
• I smiled, just a little. Still there was no smile from him but his jaw flexed like he was biting one back.
• My heart dropped a bit. I didn’t know why that was, when I should be used to this sort of behavior from him.
• I walked on then. My heart didn’t settle until I’d made it all the way to the bakery and back. And yes, I bought eggs. And a croissant I didn’t need.
• And yes, I walked past again on the way home, but he was gone.
• Later in the afternoon, I stopped by the apothecary under the guise of restocking the tea. The truth was that I needed someone to help me untangle the tangle that was Noah Bruce’s unreadable face.
• Sienna was rearranging jars when I walked in.
• “Back already?” she said, not bothering to hide her smirk.
• “What can I say? Your tea has addictive properties.”
• She chuckled and gestured to a fresh batch by the window. “This one’s got a little passionflower mixed in. Helps with restless thoughts.”
• “Oh good. My thoughts are basically on a caffeine bender at this point.”
• As she packaged the herbs, I leaned casually against the counter. “Can I ask you something?”
• “Shoot.”
• “Noah Bruce.”
• Sienna paused for half a second. Then, without missing a beat, she shot off; “Stormwood Noah? Moody eyes? Jawline you could cut glass with?”
• “Wow,” I laughed. “You do know him.”
• She grinned. “Small town. We all know each other. Doesn’t mean we all talk to each other.”
• “What’s his deal?” I asked, trying not to sound like a fourteen-year-old with a hopeless crush. “He’s… interesting.”
• “That’s one word for it.” She tied off the packet of tea and slid it across the counter. “He’s lived here longer than I’ve been alive.”
• I blinked. “Wait. What?”
• She raised an eyebrow. “Not literally. Probably. I mean, who knows with him?”
• “Sienna.”
• “I’m just saying, They call him the ghost man,” she said with a shrug. “But that’s just people being afraid of what they can’t label. He doesn’t fit into this town’s neat little boxes and it drives them inside.”
• “So basically, he’s allergic to community.”
• “More like he’s immune to it.”
• I frowned. “But he helped me the night my car broke down. Just showed up, fixed the tire and drove off.”
• “That’s more than he’s done for most people,” Sienna said. “You must’ve made an impression.”
• I felt my face warm, and I hated how obvious it was.
• “He doesn’t smile,” I said.
• She laughed. “He does. Just not often. And if you see it, you’re either in danger or incredibly special.”
• “Comforting.”
• “Here’s the thing about Noah,” she said, lowering her voice slightly. “He’s not rude. He’s… burdened. Like he’s carrying something heavy and doesn’t want to drop it on anyone else.”
• “You sound like you like him.”
• “I respect him. Doesn’t mean I understand him.” She gave me a look. “But be careful.”
• “Why?”
• “Because he’s the kind of person who doesn’t let people in easily. And once he does… it changes things.”
• I nodded slowly, unsure what to do with that.
• Was I trying to be let in? Did I even want to?
• Yes. Obviously.
• That night, I opened a new journal page and wrote:
• Saw him again today. Shirtless and splitting wood like a scene in some kind of romance novel.
• He looked at me like I was interrupting something but he didn’t seem mad about it.
• I waved. He didn’t. But he didn’t stop looking either.
• There’s something in his eyes I can’t pin down. Sadness? Anger? Guilt? It feels… old.
• Sienna said he’s lived here longer than she’s been alive. That’s probably a joke. Hopefully.
• I don’t know what I’m doing. But writing about him feels easier than trying to forget his face.
• I stared at the page for a long time before closing the journal. It was onvoice tbat the Stormwoor Housebhad a lot of secrets, but somehow, I got the feeling tbat the real mystery wasn’t the house but the man inside it.