**Across The Ocean**

****

****

“What the hell is that smell?”

The thought hit me the second I stepped off the plane.

It wasn’t just one thing—it was a mix.

Sandalwood. Maple syrup. Pine.

All blending into one weird-ass combination that should’ve been overwhelming—but wasn’t.

Instead, it was oddly comforting.

Like the air itself was trying to tell me, you’re not in London anymore.

The hustle and bustle of the airport was the same—people rushing to get somewhere, suitcases thudding onto the floor after coming off the turnbuckle, wheels screeching against the tiles.

But it didn’t feel the same.

Back home, Heathrow was pure fucking chaos, the kind that had been drilled into me so deep, it became background noise.

But here?

Everything felt… muted.

Like the air was thicker, heavier, clinging to my skin with a faint sweetness that refused to let go.

I adjusted the strap on my bag and pushed forward, weaving through the small clusters of people, trying to ignore the ever-tightening knot in my stomach.

No turning back. This was it.

Maplewood was my new home. I needed to get that through my thick skull.

The escape had been hell. Maybe this was the reward.

I was finally free of the Devil.

I could move on.

Maybe.

The thought should’ve been comforting, but instead, the knot in my stomach pulled tighter, squeezing the air from my lungs.

What if this was all in my fucking head?

What if I failed?

“Miss?”

The voice cut through my thoughts, yanking me back to reality.

I blinked, realizing I was standing in the middle of the taxi rank, completely zoned out.

“Are you wanting this cab?”

“No,” I managed to get out. “Go ahead.”

I stepped back, watching as the man who had spoken started loading his luggage into the bright yellow boot of the taxi.

I didn’t even remember making it all the way to the taxi rank.

How the hell did I get here?

I was so lost in my head that I didn’t even notice the tiny tap on my arm until it was already happening.

“Have a great day, Miss.”

I turned, startled, to see a small child, maybe five or six, staring up at me.

She held out a yellow daisy, her tiny fingers wrapping around the stem like it was something precious.

Before I could even react, she placed it in my hand and climbed into the taxi, disappearing behind the door.

I stared down at the flower.

What the fuck?

Well, that was… unexpected.

Maybe Maplewood wasn’t so bad.

For the first time since stepping off the plane, I felt a little lighter, like maybe—just maybe—this had been the right decision. But hope was a fragile thing. I wasn’t sure I could hold onto it. And yet, for a fleeting second, I wanted to.

“Miss?” A taxi driver called out. “I’m ready for you.”

I took a breath. “Coming.”

And with the slightest hint of a smile, I stepped toward the cab.

It was time to start my new life.

“Maplewood, huh?”

The driver’s voice pulled me from staring out the window.

“Yes.” My tone was short. Not one for small talk.

Maybe this guy would take the hint.

“Visiting or staying? You’ve packed pretty light.”

“Not much to pack,” I snapped, already regretting answering.

God, please stop talking.

“Fresh start, then.”

I clenched my jaw. “How much longer?”

“Ten more minutes. You’re right in the center—your place is only a short walk from the café.”

“Great.”

I turned back toward the window, watching as the landscape blurred past.

“Friendly little town.”

“I’ve heard.”

He laughed like it was funny. I scoffed. How fucking rude.

He knows nothing about me.

“Everybody knows everybody in Maplewood.”

My head snapped toward him.

What?

That was not what I’d heard.

Maybe this was the wrong choice after all.

“Don’t worry, love. Don’t let people scare you. They mean well… well, mostly.”

As the taxi turned onto a small street, I finally took in my surroundings.

A quaint little café sat perched on the corner, its frosted windows slightly fogged up from the warmth inside.

Rustic. Charming, if you were into that sort of thing.

The paint was faded, peeling in places, like the whole building could use a fresh coat of something—anything.

The sign above read The Maple Bean.

How original.

My eyes practically rolled themselves.

“Do you know anyone here?” the driver asked again.

“Nope.”

Just the way I liked it.

Being invisible.

“There’s a lass named Ruby in there. She knows everyone.”

I rolled my eyes. Again.

Do I seriously look like I’m here to make friends?

Why wasn’t this guy picking up on the fact that I was socially unavailable?

“We’re here.”

The taxi lurched to a stop in front of the house, its engine rattling into silence like it was relieved to be done.

For a moment, I just stared out the window, taking it all in.

It wasn’t much.

A small, worn-down bungalow, its faded gray paint peeling at the edges like it had been left too long in the sun. The white trim along the windows and door was chipped and cracked, and the narrow front porch slanted slightly to one side, like the house was tired of holding itself up.

A swing hung from the porch’s frame, swaying lazily in the breeze, its chains groaning like they hadn’t been touched in years.

Two planters sat near the steps, but the flowers inside were long dead, their brittle remains spilling over the sides like tiny corpses.

The yard wasn’t much better—overgrown, patchy, the grass fighting for its place in the dirt.

Two towering trees stood on either side of the house, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, casting long shadows over the roof.

The whole place looked like it had been forgotten.

Like it was waiting for something.

The taxi driver heaved himself out of the cab, retrieved my suitcase from the trunk, and dumped it onto the side walk.

“Home sweet home.”

I stepped out onto the curb, my boots crunching against loose gravel.

The air was thick with sweet pine, faint but sharp, mixing with the metallic tang of the taxi’s exhaust.

The street was quiet.

No sirens. No honking horns. Just the distant hum of a lawnmower in the next yard and the occasional chirp of birds overhead.

For a second, I just stood there, suitcase at my feet, taking it all in.

The house looked… tired. Worn.

But somehow, it didn’t feel entirely unwelcoming.

Maybe it was the faded blue door, a stark contrast against the rest of the muted, peeling exterior. Or maybe it was the small brass owl knocker, its scratched wings still standing proud, like it refused to let time wear it down.

It wasn’t perfect.

Not even close.

But for some reason, I didn’t immediately want to run the fuck away.

The taxi driver dropped my suitcase onto the porch with a heavy thud and tipped his hat.

“You sure you don’t need a hand with anything else?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

I forced a smile, waiting for him to drive off before turning back to the house.

I took a slow step forward.

The porch groaned under my weight, the swing creaked louder, the breeze catching it just enough to make it sway again.

I hesitated, then reached for the brass owl and knocked.

The sound was dull, flat against the wood.

Nothing.

No echo. No reply. Just silence.

Or maybe just a placeholder for something better.

I wasn’t sure yet.

I let out a breath, my grip tightening on my suitcase as I took one last look around.

It wasn’t much.

But it would do. At least it wasn’t haunted by the past. Just empty. Like me.

At least it was quiet—no traffic noise, no blaring sirens.

And best of all? No nosy neighbours.

Or so I thought.

“Need some help?”

The voice cut through the stillness like a knife—low, calm, and entirely too close.

I spun around, clutching the handle of my suitcase tighter, my heart slamming into my throat.

He looked like he’d just stepped straight out of a perfectly curated small-town drama—the kind where guys like him were both the problem and the plot twist.

Casual. Relaxed.

Like he belonged here.

Like he fucking knew it.

He leaned against the tree like it was the most natural thing in the world, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans, exuding an ease that felt too practised to be accidental.

His dark hair was tousled, like he didn’t try but somehow got it right.

It fell just over his brows, framing sharp features that caught the afternoon light in a way that felt almost calculated.

The kind of face that didn’t belong in a town like this.

Too striking. Too confident.

And yet, here he was.

His green eyes, sharp and unapologetic, like he saw everything without giving a damn.

The leather jacket slung over his shoulders looked worn, like it had survived too many summers and winters, collecting stories along the way.

And it clung to him just enough to suggest there was a hell of a lot more beneath the surface than the lazy charm he wore like armour.

Everything about him seemed deliberate but effortless.

The way he stood. The faintest curve of a smirk tugging at his lips. The sharp tilt of his head—like he was already three steps ahead, waiting for me to catch up to whatever game he was playing.

“You look like you need rescuing.

His words hung in the air, smug and unbothered. I hated the way they made my pulse skip, even if just for a second.”

He laughed, low and easy.

Like he knew something I didn’t.

Great. My first Maplewood cliché wrapped in leather and arrogance. Trouble, wrapped in a smirk. Just what I didn’t need. But my heart clearly didn’t get the memo. I hated that it noticed at all.