Page 5 of Rose and the Grouch Next Door

"Ooh, a challenge!" Lila claps her hands gleefully. "Using HoneyBun to help you get laid? My, aren't we sneaky!"

"Get laid? No, no, no," I protest, feeling the heat in my cheeks spread to the tips of my ears. "It’s not like that at all. It's just…"

"Come on, Rose. You're telling me you haven't thought about playing naughty school girl with the professor even a little?" A mischievous glint sparkles in Lila's eyes and she holds up one hand, her thumb and finger indicating a “little” and I can't help but laugh.

"Maybe a tiny bit..." The words tumble out before I can snatch them back, and her grin widens.

"See? There's nothing wrong with a little harmless flirting," she teases, then gives me a wink. “Especially if he’s a hot, older guy.”

"But I'm not sure he even likes me," I admit, twirling a strand of my blonde hair around my finger, something I do when I’m anxious. “And I hate it when people don’t like me. Everyone likes me.” I muse, pondering the mystery that’s Braxton Barrows. "How does one win someone like that over? In a neighborly way, of course."

“Rose, you're impossible.” She sighs. “You've got that sunshine personality everyone adores. Just be yourself, and if that doesn't melt his icy attitude, I don't know what will.”

"Right, because 'being myself' has worked wonders so far," I quip, though a part of me knows she's probably onto something.I mean, how can someone resist a daily dose of Honeybun shenanigans and my well-intentioned, cheery, over sharing, way too talkative self?

"Trust me," Lila says with confidence. "That man is going to be putty in your hands before you know it."

"You know," she adds, her voice lowering conspiratorially across the booth, "Braxton could be more than just your neighbor. He could be your naughty neighbor with benefits."

"Wha—no!" I stammer, nearly dropping a shaker. "I just...want to be on good terms, that's all."

"Uh-huh," she drawls, clearly not buying it. "Maybe bake him some cookies and casseroles as part of being a friendly neighbor? That’s a Sea Shanty Cove thing to do. Throw in a pie or two? Men love a woman who can bake. It's like, primal or something."

“Maybe…,” I’m genuinely pondering the idea. “I could try some of my grandma’s recipes or maybe a lemon meringue pie? That's sunny, right? Like me!”

"Definitely," she laughs. "Nothing screams 'eat this and love me me up' like whipped egg whites and lemon zest. Or maybe “eat this and eat me!” Her eyebrows waggle.

I roll my eyes at her, groaning at her humor. “But he's so different from me. He's got a whole academic daddy vibe going. We have nothing in common to talk about. Winning him over will be impossible.”

"Hey," Lila says, reaching across the table to give my hand a reassuring squeeze. "Don't sell yourself short. You've got that whole adorable, hippie-chic aura, and everyone loves you for it. Plus, you're a great listener who happens to have a smokin’ hot bod,” she laughs. “That counts for a lot."

"Maybe," I murmur, unconvinced. "I just don't want to start baking pies and casseroles and end up looking like some desperate little girl looking for attention."

"Rose Flowers, you are many things, but desperate isn't one of them," Lila interrupts firmly. "You're genuine, and that's rare. Just let that shine through, and if he's got a brain in his head, he'll see how amazing you are."

"Okay," I say, feeling motivated by her belief in me. "Operation Neighborly Love' is underway."

Brace yourself, Braxton, 'cause here comes the sunshine.

Chapter Four

Braxton

Sitting on my front porch, I’m enjoying my morning coffee and watching dolphins play in the bay when I see a neon pink golf cart decorated with large, colorful vinyl daisies barrelling down the two-lane public road in between my house and the beach. Sea Shanty Cove is a golf-cart community, so seeing a golf cart isn’t unusual, but seeing one decked out and personalized like this one isn’t something you see every day.

As soon as I see who is driving the eyesore, it makes sense. Because, of course, that’s what she would drive. A colorful, hippy-mobile that screams sunshine and happiness.

Rose is slowly worming her way into my life. Every day this week, I’ve opened my door to find some dish she has cooked waiting for me. It’s been mainly desserts, cookies, casseroles, even a lemon meringue pie for fuck’s sake. One day, it was some type of seafood stew.

They all appeared to be being edible, but were far from it. So far from it, that, after a few bites, I’ve had to throw everythingaway, hoping she won’t find out. I have a feeling it would hurt her feelings beyond repair.

Honestly, I don’t know how someone can mess up cookies or stew, but Rose does. Too much salt, or some unknown ingredient, always makes it beyond being able to digest. Every night, I silently walk next door and return the empty dish to her on her porch, hoping to avoid interaction and also hoping she would think I ate them.

She’s so fucking sweet.What kind of person cooks for an asshole neighbor?

Rose. That’s who.

I haven’t even talked to her since Honeybun’s swim, despite the fact she waves enthusiastically at me every damn morning saying, “Good morning!” Being the jerk I am, I pointedly ignore her, going back inside the house because I refuse to encourage any interaction with her. I’m also a New Yorker. We don’t do that shit.

---