Chapter 1: Stand-In, Not a Saint

Here in Maple Heights, I’m living the stand-in life—basically, I’m living it up, no strings attached. Think of it like being a temp in someone else’s family—here for now, gone tomorrow. No one expects much, and honestly, that’s half the fun.

The Whitlock house is this massive old Colonial, all creaky floorboards and drafty hallways—the kind of place where the past clings to the woodwork and the porch swing groans with secrets. You can almost hear it whispering if you listen long enough. I drift through the place like it’s mine, even though deep down I know I’m just a guest, a placeholder in someone else’s chapter. Still, I sprawl on the couch, eat ice cream right from the carton, and let the radio blast whatever. There’s a weird freedom in being nobody’s actual problem.

Some folks treat their stand-ins like they’re some sort of untouchable ideal—like porcelain dolls you can’t get too close to. But David Whitlock? He’s not your typical guy. He treats me like a daughter, which is pretty wild in a town like this.

Not that I make it easy for him. I push every boundary, poke every button, but David never even raises his voice. Sometimes he just shakes his head and laughs, like he’s already seen every trick in the book. There’s this warmth in the way he looks at me—a patience I’m definitely not used to. Honestly, it almost freaks me out, how easily he rolls with my chaos.

But he’s thirty-two, just eight years older than me. Which, honestly, is weird. Unless he started fatherhood in middle school, there’s no way I could actually be his kid.

I run the numbers in my head sometimes, just to double-check. Eight years isn’t much, but the way he fusses over me, you’d swear he was my dad instead of just the guy who took me in. It’s weird, but also kind of sweet. Like having someone in your corner, even if the whole town’s giving you side-eye.

Not my proudest routine, but hey—like always, I went to flirt with Dr. Chris Moreno and didn’t drag myself home until midnight.

The night air was thick—fresh-cut grass, a hint of barbecue smoke drifting from somewhere down the block. I hopped the fence, scrambled up the garage shingles, and dropped off the roof—nearly landing on David’s head. He’d set up a little table in the backyard, porch light glowing, sipping coffee like midnight was prime time for deep thoughts.

Busted. He always knows. With his eyes down, he poured me a cup. “Went to the county hospital again?”

After all that climbing and sneaking, I was dying of thirst. I chugged the coffee in one go. “Yeah.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—probably secondhand embarrassment, honestly. But he just poured me another cup. “How’s Chris?”

The mug was warm in my hands. I plopped down cross-legged on the grass, sighing. “He’s so clueless. I spent days tracking down this medical textbook he wanted, brought it to him all excited, and he actually says, ‘Miss, this isn’t proper etiquette.’”

David let out a laugh, his eyes sparking for a second. “‘Not proper etiquette’?”

I shot him a look. “Glad you’re enjoying my misery?”

He tried to hide his grin, but it faded, replaced by something sad I couldn’t quite place. “Not at all. Just remembering old times—it’s hard not to laugh.”

He stood, gathering the mugs. “It’s late. Go get some sleep.”

At the back door, he paused but didn’t turn around. “Don’t worry. He’ll get it someday.”

I’m just a stand-in, but David’s kindness honestly makes me squirm a little.

Sometimes I lie awake, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slow shadows, wondering why he’s so good to me. It almost feels like he’s in a hurry to marry me off.

Well, no surprise—I’m in a hurry to marry myself off, too. To Chris Moreno, specifically.

I’ve been absolutely relentless in chasing Chris, putting my heart right out there.

If there were a trophy for Most Persistent Flirt in Maple Heights, I’d have it on my nightstand. No contest. Chris is the famous son of Dr. Anthony Moreno, from a family of doctors who fix the world. He traveled all over since he was a kid, learning from the best. Compared to the spoiled guys around here, he’s tanner, sturdier, just more real—in short, everything I want.

But he’s got zero clue when it comes to romance. No matter what I do, his affection meter stays at zero.

Three months ago, my first attempt at a ‘chance’ meeting: I found out where Chris buys his pens and notepads. I put on my best ‘classy girl’ act, tripped on purpose, and hoped he’d catch me.

The sidewalk outside the stationery store was slick from the rain. Chris moved quick—dodged me completely.

I hit the ground, hard.

He just looked down, totally unfazed. “You okay, miss?”

I’m sprawled out, grimacing, and that’s all he’s got?

He looked down, no move to help. I had to pick myself up, awkward as anything. “I’m fine.”

He just nodded, brushed off his jacket, and walked off—didn’t even look back.

Two months ago, round two: I scoped out his favorite coffee shop, dressed up all sweet and bubbly, and ‘accidentally’ dumped coffee on his pale shirt.

The place was packed, indie music thumping. I whipped out a scented napkin, ready to dab at his shirt.

Chris, ninja reflexes, dodged again.

My hand just sort of hung there, midair.

He gave me a cool look. “No need to worry, miss.”

“I like things clean. With this stain, I’m probably tossing the shirt. No need to wipe it.”

I tried to salvage it. “I’ll bring you a new shirt as an apology.”

He shook his head, brushed off his jacket, and left—again, and that was that.

Of course, my antics made it back to David: the girl from his house shamelessly chasing after Dr. Moreno.

That day, David sat in my room, face so stormy it could’ve spawned a tornado, silent and about to explode.

He’s the Deputy County Clerk—usually a gentle, refined guy. But that day, he looked ready to murder someone. I stood there, head down, not daring to breathe.

After a long silence, he tapped the table with those long fingers, then finally spoke, his voice flat and brittle. “So, what exactly have you been up to?”

By Maple Heights rules, a girl like me chasing after marriage on her own is big news. I figured, since I’m just a stand-in, maybe David wouldn’t go that far—but honestly, who knows.

I didn’t even try to hide it. I confessed everything, tugged his sleeve, and pouted. “Maggie knows she was wrong. Please, go easy on me.”

His face went through about a hundred emotions. In the end, he actually covered his forehead and laughed. “So that’s it. It was you.”

“What about me?”

He shook his head and sighed. “Forget it.”

He didn’t say anything else, just stood up and walked out—no scolding at all.

A month ago, my third try: I hired two fake muggers to ‘rob’ Chris as he walked home from visiting friends out of town. I ‘rescued’ him, even let the ‘muggers’ give me a shallow cut for realism.

I brought Chris to this old barn I’d scoped out—time for the ‘passion and confessions’ part of the plan.

I was busy daydreaming about romance when Chris suddenly shot a flare into the sky.

Plot twist. I stared at him, stunned. “What are you doing?”

He looked at me coolly. “Thank you for saving me, miss. Within the hour, someone will come to help.”

My heart sank. I just clutched my arm and played the damsel in distress.

He looked at my cut from a safe distance. “At least it’s not bleeding much. Once we get back, I’ll have a good doctor take care of you.”

Not a single word about whether I was actually hurt. And he calls himself a doctor—ever heard of bedside manner?

About half an hour later, the Moreno family driver showed up. Chris told him to take me to a clinic and find a female nurse for my wound.

Still, I tried, “Why doesn’t Dr. Moreno treat me himself, as a thank you?”

He brushed off his jacket and left, as always—totally unmoved.

I sighed. Maple Heights is pretty open-minded, but Chris’s sense of propriety is a mile thick. If I married him, I’d probably never get pregnant.

When David saw my cut, his face went paper white.

I waved it off. “Just a scratch, no big deal.”

He studied me—half-defeated, half-carefree—then suddenly asked, “You staged a damsel-in-distress rescue, didn’t you?”

Honestly impressed, I nodded.

David grounded me for a week. I tried to escape a bunch of times, but the Whitlocks’ security always caught me. Turns out, David always knew about my nighttime adventures—he just let it slide.