An all-new small town, forced proximity, enemies to lovers romance is coming this week from Claudia Burgoa—part of The Timberbridge Brothers series—and I have a sneak peek for you.
Excerpt
I feel like a thief.
A thief coming back to the scene of the crime.
Like a ghost slipping through the cracks of a life that probably doesn’t belong to me.
Just like that night three years ago, the air is thick with mist. Moonlight slices through the skeletal branches of the trees lining the long gravel drive, casting silver shadows that flicker like ghosts. My hands tighten around the wheel as I take the final turn, my breath shallow, my pulse drumming against my ribs.
Maybe this is a mistake. I should turn around, go back home. But what if it’s fine? What if I’m just being paranoid? I could’ve come back in the morning, talked to the sheriff and . . . but what would the old man have done? Nothing.
It’s been three years.
Three years since I last saw this place. Since I jumped in my truck and ran as far as I could. Grandma Milly insists everything is fine—not that she’s actually come to check on my property. Nope. She was against it from the start. It’s too far from town, a girl your age shouldn’t be living in an old place. You don’t know anything about farms.
But I did. That’s what my degree was for. Agroecology and Landscape Design. A Ph.D. in Agricultural Sciences. There was a whole plan—a good one. But plans don’t always work, and I had to leave, praying they wouldn’t hurt my grandmother. I mean, she lives in town, and strangers might not connect that we’re related.
That’s what I was hoping for all along while I was away.
But now . . . well, now she says she’s sick. And I can’t ignore that. She’s all I have, and I can’t take care of her through burner phone texts. So, here I am.
The old house looms at the top of the hill, its silhouette jagged against the mist-laden sky. The wraparound porch, once pristine, is edged with peeling paint. One of the shutters on the second floor hangs askew, rattling in the wind like an omen. The barn to the right, dark and hulking, stands just as I left it—though something about the way it leans sends a prickle down my spine.
I shouldn’t be here.
But there was nowhere else to go. I don’t want Grandma to know I’m here until I know it’s safe. Staying at a hotel is out of the question. It’d be a very stupid financial decision. I don’t have much money and the little I have is going to be used to fix my house.
Killing the headlights, I sit in the driver’s seat for a moment, listening. The night is too quiet. The town sleeps in the valley below, the nearest neighbor miles away. It’s exactly what I need. No prying eyes, no whispered rumors.
Still, unease crawls up my spine.
I reach for the glove compartment and pull out my old knife, running my thumb over the familiar grooves in the handle. No one is here, I remind myself. Best of all, no one knows I’m here.
No one but me.
I step out of the truck. The air is crisp, tinged with damp earth and pine. I inhale deeply, grounding myself in the scent of home—if it can still be called that.
My fingers tighten around the keys as I ascend the porch steps. The wood groans beneath my weight, brittle with age. The front door sticks when I push it, the lock stiff from disuse. For a brief second, I think maybe I shouldn’t go inside. Maybe I should turn around, get back in the car, and—
No.
I shove harder, and the door swings open with a reluctant creak.
The scent of dust and time greets me first. The air inside is stale, carrying the faintest trace of something I can’t place—something sharp, metallic. The house is cold, as if the walls have forgotten what warmth feels like.
I step inside, my body on high alert. The old wooden floorboards creak under my weight, the sound echoing through the cavernous silence.
The living room is just as I left it.
The stone fireplace stands untouched, the furniture draped in white sheets like shrouds. A thin layer of dust coats every surface, dulling the once-rich mahogany of the banisters and bookshelves.
It’s like walking into a preserved memory.
I move through the house with careful steps, my fingers trailing over familiar edges. The kitchen, with its deep farmhouse sink and open shelving, looks frozen in time. A single coffee cup sits on the counter, exactly where I left it the night I had to run away.
I shake off the thought and move toward the staircase, my footfalls heavier than I want them to be. Every sound in this house feels louder now, too exposed. My skin prickles as if I’m being watched, though I know it’s impossible.
Still, I reach for the knife tucked at my hip.
The second floor is worse. The doors to the bedrooms gape open.
My old room is at the end of the hall.
I hesitate before pushing open the door.
The bed is still there, the same old comforter rumpled as if waiting for me to slip beneath it, as if I never left. A breath shudders through me as I step to the window. The view spills out over the darkened fields, past the barn, toward the tree line.
Nothing stirs.
Silent. Still. Safe.
I tell myself that again. I am safe here.
But I don’t believe it.
Something just doesn’t feel right. I leave the bedroom door open as I make my way back downstairs, my fingers skimming the wooden railings. The house creaks around me, the wind rattling against the old glass panes.
In the kitchen, I open the cabinets, checking for anything salvageable. A few canned goods remain, expired but intact. I make a mental note to restock, to bring this place back to life.
A thump echoes from the back of the house.
I freeze.
My grip tightens around the knife. The sound came from outside—near the barn.
I move slowly, silently, crossing the kitchen to the back door. The porch light is dead, but the moon offers enough illumination to see the yard.
Nothing moves.
Still, my pulse thrums against my skin as I step outside.
The barn doors stand slightly ajar, swaying in the wind.
I hesitate.
Logic tells me it’s just the wind, that old wood shifts and settles. That no one else knows I’m here.
But logic doesn’t stop the feeling creeping into my bones.
I take a step forward, then another, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.
The barn looms ahead, the doors yawning open like something beckoning.
I swallow hard, gripping my knife.
The past is buried, I remind myself again.
But the unease lingers.
And in the pit of my stomach, I know—
Some things don’t stay buried forever. Maybe the body is underground, but what if those men come back?
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The Timberbridge Brothers - Recommended Reading Order
(standalone stories with interconnected characters)
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