My new next-door neighbor seems to have everything figured out. Small town golden boy? Check. Single dad extraordinaire? Check. Hot baker forearms? I didn't notice them, I swear.

I, on the other hand, don't–at all–have anything figured out.

Trust me, I didn't think taking over my mom's dream bed and breakfast in Copper Run Vermont was going to be easy. It should be a good place to heal after my divorce. But apparently my scones belong in the garbage with my small talk skills. As pointed out by none other than Cliff.

Cliff is inescapable. He knows exactly what people need–always. His charm, the way he wears flannel, and even his pastries, make not wanting to be friends with Cliff and his daughters pretty hard.

Friends? I can make friends. That's safe.

Except I'm leaving in three months to pass the inn off to my little sister and get the promotion in Seattle I've been working towards.

So ask me why I'm thinking about kissing my hot neighbor.