His to Hold

Emma Walsh had three rules for her new life:

One: No men who came with complications. Two: No getting involved with neighbors. Three: Absolutely no falling for someone with kids.

She'd moved to this quiet Denver suburb specifically to avoid complications. After two years with Derek—two years of walking on eggshells, of second-guessing every decision, of slowly losing herself—she'd finally gathered the courage to leave. She'd packed her things while he was at work, left a note, and driven six hours to a city where he couldn't find her.

That was eight months ago.

Eight months of rebuilding. Of therapy. Of learning to trust her own judgment again. Of teaching yoga classes at the local studio and coming home to her small rental house where the only person who could disappoint her was herself.

It was quiet. It was safe. It was lonely as hell.

But lonely was better than trapped.

Emma had her life figured out. She had a plan. She had rules.

And then Marcus Rivera moved in next door with his daughter, and every single one of Emma's rules went straight out the window.

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The moving truck arrived on a Saturday morning in late April, rumbling down the quiet street and parking in front of the house next door. Emma watched from her kitchen window, coffee in hand, as two men began unloading furniture.

She'd been wondering who would move in. The previous owners—an elderly couple—had moved to Arizona for their retirement. The house had sat empty for three months, and Emma had grown accustomed to the silence.

A truck pulled up behind the moving van. Dark blue, slightly beat-up, with a "Denver Fire Department" sticker on the bumper. A man climbed out, and Emma's breath caught despite herself.

He was tall—over six feet—with broad shoulders and the kind of build that spoke of physical work. Dark hair, tanned skin, maybe Latino. Even from a distance, he moved with the confident grace of someone comfortable in his own body.

Then the passenger door opened, and a little girl jumped out. Six or seven years old, with long dark hair in a ponytail and light-up sneakers. She said something to the man—her father, clearly—and he laughed, reaching down to ruffle her hair.

Emma set down her coffee cup with more force than necessary.

Single dad. Definitely a complication.

She turned away from the window, reminding herself it didn't matter. He was a neighbor, nothing more. She'd give a polite wave if they crossed paths, maybe bring over some cookies as a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gesture, and that would be that.

Emma did not get involved with neighbors. Especially not ones with children.

Two hours later, there was a knock on her door.

Emma opened it to find the little girl standing on her porch, holding a deflated soccer ball and looking apologetic.

"Hi," the girl said. "I'...