I’m running on the sidewalk where he’s working, compelling me to cross over to the street. As I close in, I cut through a strip of soaking-wet grass, and my right foot slips out from under me. It doesn’t take more than a split second to realize I’m going to fall, with no ability to do anything about it other than accept my fate.

The man and I make brief eye contact as my banana-peel crash happens less than ten feet from where he’s standing. I land hard on my butt, my earbuds popping out as I do, and the only thing saving me from a broken tailbone is the spongy grass. I twist on the ground in a little pain and a lot of embarrassment.

The man drops his shears and races toward me.

“Are you okay?”

My running shorts have soaked in water and my butt is now unpleasantly moist.

“I think so,” I say. I struggle to rise and he reaches his hand out to help.

I buck against my Yates instincts to reject help for fear it projects weakness and take his hand. He lifts me with no effort, as if just pulling a weed from his lawn.

“I think the only thing bruised is my ego,” I say.

He smiles and I’m blinded by a perfect set of teeth.

“I’ve done worse,” he said. “I was on a first date and tried going through a revolving door that was locked in place. Walked right into the glass. Even got a bloody nose. There was no second date.”

“That’s definitely worse,” I say. A part of me wants to know how long ago that date was. Another part of me is immensely distracted by the back of my soaking-wet shorts.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Thank you…” I let the last word dangle.

“Alec. Alec Wallin. This is my place here.”

“Yup, I assumed that. You working in the yard and all.”

“I could’ve been the hired help.”

I’m not quite sure what to say to this. My father would instantly quip Yard work is for Mexicans, not Blacks.

I clear my throat. “I’m Rose. Yates.”

His eyes widen just a hair. “Ah, Rose Yates.”

“What does that mean?”

“Only that I’ve heard of you. That you’re back in town after having grown up here. And…oh, hell, I’m sorry. I heard about your husband. That’s just awful.”

“Thank you.” I wonder how long the I’m sorrys will last. “I didn’t realize I was part of the gossip mill already.”

“Well, if you grew up here, you know how this place is. I’ve been here ten years. My name’s been dragged around town its own fair share.” His gaze does a quick sweep of the sky, as if he’s scanning a force field trapping him here. “Actually, I think you know my ex-wife. You went to school with her. Tasha Collins.”

Bam.

This is how Harry Potter felt hearing the name Voldemort spoken aloud.

Tasha Collins.