Page 88 of Never Kiss the Bad Boy

“Yes,” he grits out, sounding furious.

I get that he’s stuck between a rock and a bitch, but it doesn’t make me any less mad. Not at him, but at this fucked up situation. I growl as I spin on my toe, heading back inside where I start slamming everything I can. Lids hit the counter, spoons clang against sides of the pots, and boxes slam to the table. None of it helps.

I know it’s only a few inches, but it’s the principle of it. Kathy has tried to take everything away from me, and I’ve had to fight her off over and over, so those few inches feel like a victory she doesn’t deserve.

I watch through the window over the sink, glaring at Kathy and Kyle while they talk and cursing under my breath as Zach walks back along the fence line, spraying neon paint on the grass. On my grass.

I burst out the front door, hauling two huge bags of Styrofoam boxes in my hands for the truck in front of my house. But when I hand them to Marco, he says, “Thanks, Dani, but who’s the city guy?”

I look behind me to where he’s pointing to find another Polo-wearing guy in Kathy’s yard. Are they multiplying or something? Is she cloning them in her garage?

Kathy’s pointing at the fence and then toward my house while the new guy writes something on a clipboard. Is the clipboard supposed to make this guy look official? Newsflash, it doesn’t. Anybody can slap on a high-visibility vest and grab a dollar-store clipboard, so it doesn’t make you officially anything other than a pain in my ass.

“You can’t be serious,” Kyle barks. His gaze finds me, and I realize that the shit’s hitting the fan. Again.

His sunglasses are off, so I can see the fury bright as day in his blue eyes. It doesn’t dim when he looks at me, but if that anger is for me, then we’ve got even bigger issues than whatever’s going on in Kathy’s yard.

“I don’t know,” I tell Marco.

“Maybe the asshole’s getting shut down,” he suggests, his brows climbing his forehead and a smile growing beneath his mustache.

He means Kyle, not Kathy. Marco has no reason to know that I’ve been seeing Kyle. It’s none of his business and he’s backing me up from the first day when Kyle’s guys screwed up my delivery system. It’s appreciated, but not as warranted now.

“I’ll see. Have a good day.” I wave to Marco and his truckful of guys as they pull away and then march right back to my yard to see what the hell’s going on now.

“You can see the new fence line markings there,” Kathy is telling the Polo guy, but when I get close enough, she turns her focus to me. “This is Mr. Gardener from the city Code Enforcement office.”

“You haven’t pulled permits for your pool?” I question, even though I know Kyle’s definitely done that. He’s too good to skip an important thing like that. Plus, Code Enforcement doesn’t have anything to do with permits, but it takes the wind out of Kathy’s sails exactly the way I hoped it would.

“Of course I have.” She stands taller, offended at the implication that she might be cutting corners. “He’s not here for me. He’s here for you,” Kathy sneers. “Right, Mr. Gardener?”

He seems tired of Kathy’s bullshit already, or maybe his job in general—which is logical since I can’t imagine code enforcement is a laughs-a-minute gig—because when his eyes tick from his clipboard to me, he sighs. “There’s been a complaint. Apparently, the property line adjustment means that your patio is too close to where the new fencing will be.”

I look at the patio behind me, where my smoker and huge grill—the backbones of my business and primary method for cooking huge quantities of meat every day—are located. “What do you mean, ‘too close’?” I question carefully.

“Well, technically, it’s not the concrete pad itself that’s the issue. That has to be three feet from the fence, and you’ll be close, but probably just squeak by, though we can measure once the fence is up.” He glances to Kyle, who seems to be silently screaming and ready to rip someone limb from limb, though I'm not sure if it’s me, Kathy, or Mr. Gardener. Kyle grunts, not giving him the agreement he seemed to be hoping for. “But because you have a cottage operation filed with the city?—”

He looks up, wanting me to confirm, but I simply arch a brow, not answering directly.

He cocks his head, assuming he’s correct, and continues, “The fire code for the grill comes into play. You won’t be able to have it between your house and the new fence because of both distance and fencing material.”

“I won’t be able to have my equipment here?” I echo, sure I must’ve misheard. I mean, patios are made for grills.

He shakes his head coldly. “No, and as soon as the fence is up?—”

Kathy interrupts to remind me, “Which is tomorrow!”

Mr. Gardener cuts his eyes toward her and gives a tiny, irritated shake of his head, “Once the fence is up,” he repeats pointedly, “you won’t be able to grill. Or smoke. Or any other heated cooking methods on the patio. Or the fire marshal will fine you.”

I can see it now. If I light my grill, Kathy will be all too happy to call the fire department on me, tattling as fast as she can. Which means I’m stuck.

Except…

“It just has to be away from the fence,” I clarify. “So in the back yard would be okay?”

“Fire code requires it to be on concrete for obvious fire risk.”

“Looks like tomorrow’s your last day of business,” Kathy informs me with a victorious smirk. “Can’t say I’m sorry. All those men and trucks coming up and down the street is so distasteful.”

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