Marlory dropped the boxes from her truck with a huff, eyeing the rundown building before her.
"Yep," she muttered, brushing sweat from her brow. "This is going to be the hardest task ever."
She hoisted a box into her arms and trudged up to the house. There was no need for a key—the door, gnawed away by termites, barely clung to its hinges.
Step one: fix the door, she thought grimly.
Inside, the living room was a disaster. Worn, decaying chairs leaned precariously, the air reeked of years of neglect and something worse. The peeling paint and stained curtains only made it worse.
Dropping the box with a sigh, she froze as a rat darted across her boot.
"Eeeeeeeee! God, no!" she shrieked, leaping back. Her skin crawled. "Exterminator. ASAP," she muttered, retreating to escape the suffocating stench.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
"Hello?" she answered, breathing deeply of the relatively fresher air outside.
"Did you make it to Boston safely, sweetie?" her fiancé, Todd, asked in his usual clipped tone.
She glanced across the street at a pristine apartment complex. The sight of a sleek black truck pulling into the driveway made her stomach flip. The owner stepped out, a vision of effortless masculinity in a black button-up shirt and coveralls. His hair, tied into a bun, gleamed in the sunlight. A cigar dangled lazily from his lips, and his mirrored sunglasses reflected the world like armor.
Marlory swallowed hard as he turned his head, catching her gaze. Her heart skipped.
"Marlory?" Todd's voice pulled her back to reality.
"Uh, sorry. I got... distracted," she stammered.
"You're always distracted," Todd huffed. "This is why you didn't become a Michelin chef, even though you had what it takes!"
Marlory clenched her jaw. "We agreed not to talk about this."
"I know, baby, but you threw away such a rare opportunity—"
"Goodbye, Todd," she snapped, ending the call and slamming the phone onto the hood of her truck. She grabbed another box.
Lost in her frustration, she tripped over a stray package and landed face-first in the mud.
"Oh, come on!" she groaned, scrambling to save the boxes as a sprinkler system sprang to life. Water poured over her, soaking her jeans and splashing her hair with grime.
She glanced up, mortified, to see the hot neighbor standing at the edge of his driveway, arms crossed. His dark green eyes smoldered with disdain as he exhaled a plume of smoke.
"Something funny?" she snapped, glaring.
"I hate new neighbors," he said coolly, his deep, sultry voice sending a shiver down her spine.
Marlory's mouth fell open. "Got a problem, dude? I'm just moving into the house I rented!"
"Riiiiight." His lip curled in mock regret. "If I'd known who the new tenant would be, I would've leased the place myself."
Her blood boiled. "Look, I've had a hell of a day. I don't need a grumpy jerk adding to my misery!"
He blew another stream of smoke into the air, shrugged, and turned back to his house, slamming the door behind him.
Marlory scowled. "What an asshole," she muttered, flipping him the bird for good measure. She glanced down and winced. Her mud-streaked jeans revealed the outline of her polka-dot underwear.
Boston already sucked.
Later, as she struggled to drag her couch through the narrow doorway, her muscles screamed in protest.
"Ugh, why didn't I hire movers?" she groaned, glancing longingly at the grumpy neighbor's house.
The man in question stepped outside, cigarette in hand, and leaned casually against the railing. His gaze burned into her.
"Like I said," he drawled, "noisy neighbor."
"Maybe if a grumpy-ass neighbor helped, it wouldn't be so noisy!" she shot back.
His expression remained unreadable. "Oh? Where does he live? I'll go get him for you."
Marlory narrowed her eyes. "You're hilarious."
Without another word, he appeared in front of her, so fast she nearly yelped. He lifted the couch with ease and carried it inside. Her jaw hit the floor as he returned for the fridge and other heavy items, hauling them as if they weighed nothing.
"Anything else?" he asked flatly, his gaze betraying not a hint of amusement.
"Um..." Marlory blinked, words failing her.
He was already gone, pausing only to roll up his sleeve and reveal a tattooed arm that made her brain short-circuit.
"What's your name again?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Marl—Marlo—Marlory," she stammered, heat rushing to her cheeks.
"Stay out of my sight," he said, slamming his door behind him.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Great," she muttered, forcing a nervous laugh as a dog barked at her from a nearby window.
A seven-year-old boy stuck his tongue out at her from the safety of his house.
Marlory scoffed and stuck her tongue out in return.
The kid burst into tears.
"Really?" she groaned, trudging back inside to face the hellhole that was her new home.
Yep. Boston was officially the worst.
As Marlory scrubbed the kitchen counters, she focused on the one thing that mattered most to her: the kitchen. It was the heart of the house, her sanctuary, and the one place that had to be perfect. Cooking and baking had always been her solace, a way to escape the weight of her problems, and this space—despite the rest of the house being a disaster—held a promise of renewal.
Her thoughts wandered as she wiped down the beautiful pantry shelves, the feature that had convinced her to rent the house in the first place. Memories of the life she'd envisioned as a star chef flooded back. Todd's constant critiques, her dashed dreams, and the weight of unmet expectations all pressed heavily on her. Their relationship had become strained, their conversations more about what she'd failed to do than who she wanted to be.
Marlory shook her head, refusing to dwell on the past. She had too much to fix in the present. The kitchen was her priority, but even here, the years of neglect were evident. Dust and grime covered every surface, and she knew she'd need a carpenter, a painter, and maybe even an interior decorator to bring the house back to life. Just thinking about it made her groan in frustration.
As she wiped down the sink and reached for the tap, her optimism took another blow. She turned the faucet, but not a single drop of water came out.
"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered, staring at the dry tap.
No plumbing. Of course. Why would this day be any different?
She let out a long, exasperated sigh and slumped against the counter, wondering if moving here had been a terrible mistake.