I noticed him the first day he moved in.

The house next door had been empty for almost a year after the old couple passed. Then one Saturday morning a black pickup truck rolled up, bed loaded with boxes and tools, and out stepped a man who looked like he belonged on the cover of a prison romance novel, not in a quiet suburban backyard.

Tall.

Muscular.

Tattoos crawling up both arms and disappearing under the sleeves of a faded black T-shirt.

Dark hair tied back in a messy bun, jaw shadowed with stubble, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

He didn’t wave.

Didn’t introduce himself.

Just started unloading heavy boxes,...