Chapter One:
The first time Melissa saw Evan's face through the fluttering blinds, she assumed it was a trick of the late spring sun, just a glimmer, a shadow thrown through the slats. A coincidence. But then it kept happening.
Their neighborhood was the sort of place built on echoes: neatly spaced mailboxes, asphalt still warm from noon, the scent of barbecues and cut grass thick in the evenings. Melissa had lived on Winterberry Lane for six years. She'd married Mark two years into her accounting career, bought this two-story colonial nestled between hydrangea bushes and lilac trees, and if you'd asked her last month, she would have said she was content.
But Evan had moved in across the street, and now, nothing felt certain anymore.
He was younger, maybe early thirties. Tall, lean in the hips, with that kind of casual unshaved jaw and dusky olive skin that made every other man on the block look like an afterthought. He walked his German shepherd shirtless some afternoons, and Melissa, Melissa who never stared, Melissa who used to roll her eyes at the women at Bunco night, found herself watching through the kitchen window, chewing on the straw of her iced coffee like a girl in heat.
The first real encounter was innocent. A knock on the door, and there he was: olive button-up open just enough to show a peek of chest, mirrored sunglasses pushed up into a mane of thick black hair, his voice a smoky baritone that made her knees bend reflexively.
"Hey," he said, holding up a set of envelopes. "Think these are yours. Mailman's got dyslexia or something."
Melissa blinked. Took the letters. Her fingertips brushed his.
"Thanks," she said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "I'm Melissa."
"I know," Evan said, his smile slow and sure. "You're the prettiest thing on this street."
Her face flushed immediately, heat blooming down her throat, pooling under her blouse. She laughed it off. Made a polite excuse and shut the door, only to lean back against it, heart drumming. Her panties were wet.
*
Two weeks later, he was in her kitchen.
He'd shown up unannounced again, just as she was wiping down the counters after Mark had gone off to work. He was working long hours lately, some finance merger or another, Melissa couldn't remember. Couldn't care.
"Morning," Evan said. "Hope you don't mind."
He held up a tray. Two steaming cappuccinos. No sugar, just a dusting of cocoa on the foam.
"I figured you'd prefer something a little better than what your husband probably makes."
She snorted, covering her smile. "Mark doesn't even touch the coffee machine."
"Of course not. Guys like him never do." Evan stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, set the tray down, and pulled out a chair like he belonged there. "You got a minute?"
Melissa hesitated, then found herself nodding. Sitting. Laughing too easily.
Evan asked about her job. Her hobbies. Her marriage. The way his eyes pinned hers made it hard to lie, even harder to speak in full truths. She said it was fine. That she and Mark were doing okay.
"Okay," Evan murmured. "That's a shame."
Melissa swallowed. His voice had dropped an octave. She wasn't sure if she liked the shiver it sent through her spine, or the wetness it brought again between her thighs.
Then came the first suggestion.
"You ever try guided breathing?" Evan asked, leaning back, legs sprawled, his fingers cradling the mug. "It helps calm the nerves. Lotta people underestimate how powerful breathwork can be. Especially... women under stress."
Melissa blinked. "Stress?"
Evan tilted his head. "You've got it in your shoulders. In your voice. Want to try?"
She gave a nervous laugh. "Now?"
"No time like the present," he said, voice as smooth as dark silk. "Trust me."
She nodded.
