“Absolutely. It’s empty and move-in ready. That key is for the separate entryway off the main house. The only thing the space doesn’t have is a kitchen. So, he’ll have to share with us. You told him that, right?”

“Yes. He’s thrilled that he doesn’t have to commit to a lease. So, he’ll take anything flexible he can get. He says he’ll start gradually moving his stuff in, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Thanks for the heads up.”

“Alright, see you at class next week, Bridge.”

Calliope was my yoga instructor, who’d become a friend. Outside of classes, we’d sometimes meet for coffee at the Starbucks in town. She’d moved here to Rhode Island from the UK several years ago when her husband got a job with the American division of the bank he worked for.

When she’d told me that her BFF needed a place that didn’t come with a one-year commitment, I offered the in-law apartment on my property. Apparently, he was in his last year of residency and was transferred to my hospital with less than a year to go before he would be moving out of state. So, he didn’t want to sign a new lease and needed a place relatively close to work. The suburb where I lived was right off the highway and a straight, ten-minute shot to Providence.

My husband, Ben, died unexpectedly a couple of years ago, leaving our then six-year-old son, Brendan, and me behind to fend for ourselves. Despite my decent nursing salary, it had become tougher as of late to cover the mortgage for our large colonial. The life insurance that I’d collected needed to be set aside for my son’s eventual college education. I’d never be able to save for that; even meeting the monthly bills was a challenge. But I refused to move, wanting Brendan to be able to continue to live in the only house he’d ever known.

I’d been thinking about renting out the vacant in-law apartment that came with the house for a while now. So, when Calliope mentioned her friend, who she said was like a brother to her, needed a place to stay, I figured it would be good extra income to rent out the space to him. And at least I knew he wasn’t some psychopath.

By the end of the week, I’d slowly noticed boxes showing up whenever I peeked into the unit. Simon must have been coming in during the day and dropping things off, but we’d yet to cross paths.

One evening, Brendan was spending the night over at Ben’s mother’s house about a half-hour away in North Kingstown. I decided to draw myself a hot bath, since I could relax without interruption. The bathroom typically got too hot with the door closed, so I left it open, figuring I’d take advantage of the fact that my son wasn’t home tonight.

I had a tendency to feel faint when immersed in hot water for too long, so I reluctantly forced myself out of the soothing suds after thirty minutes and wrapped myself in a plush towel. Sure enough, the twinge of nausea that I normally felt right before I was about to pass out hit.

I had been told that to prevent a blackout, I should put my head between my knees. But it was too late. The last thing I remembered was my towel dropping to the floor.

An indeterminate amount of time later, my eyes blinked open. I was lying by the tub naked, grateful that I was okay. It wasn’t my first rodeo; fainting was just something I was prone to.

When I had passed out that one time in hot yoga class, I remembered Calliope telling me to get into Child’s Pose before standing. So, this time I stayed down on my hands and knees, spreading my knees wide apart while keeping my big toes touching. My butt rested on my heels. Breathing in and out, I tried to relax.

“Bridget?”

The sound of a man’s voice caused me to jump so fast that I hit my head on the tub. “Ow!” I turned around, took one look at him, and gasped.

Holy shit. What?!

I blinked.

What is Dr. Dreamy doing here? Is this a dream?

Maybe I didn’t really wake up?

Covering my breasts, I said, “Oh my God. What? What are you doing here?”

He reached for my towel and wrapped it around me then knelt down to immediately check my head for any injury. He’d slipped right into doctor mode. “Where does it hurt?”

Pointing to an area on the front of my skull, I said, “Here.”

My nipples hardened at the closeness of his body.

He rubbed his finger along the area. “There doesn’t seem to be a bump. I think you’ll live.”

We both sat on the floor, our backs against the tub.

I repeated, “What are you doing here?”

“I live here, apparently.”