Page 21 of Neighbor from Hell
It’s freedom, or close enough.
I park outside the pharmacy, cut the engine, but before I can step out, I receive a call from Edward. About time.
Chapter
Fourteen
LAUREN
The bicycle wobbles beneath me, and the chain rattles like it’s got a personal grudge against me. It’s broken down twice already—first a mile out, when the pedal jammed, then again near that muddy ditch, where I nearly ate dirt. I’ll admit I swore like a drunken sailor.
My thighs burn with the unaccustomed exercise, and sweat blooms under my arms, but I push on. The road dips toward the village, and finally, I see it—the lovely old shops huddled close, chimneys puffing lazy smoke, the street alive with people, voices, motion.
My chest loosens. I made it. After days buried in that hoarder’s hellhole, this is oxygen, this is life. The bike’s squeaky wheels slow as I coast in, soaking it up. It’s not even market day, and already it is like being inside a painting from another time. Everything is just so wholesome. A van is delivering bread in baskets, a group of women are chatting outside the butchers, and kids are strolling along in their charming school uniforms.Someone has just left his bicycle lying on the ground without fear of it being stolen.
The group of women turn to look at me, and I do what I would never do back in Chicago, I smile broadly at them. They immediately smile back and wave. Yes, I’m alone here, but not invisible, and it feels so damn good.
The bakery is my first destination. After days of eating canned soup, I’m gagging for something delicious. Again, I do what I would never do back home. I lean the bike against a lamppost—no lock, but if nobody is stealing the other good bike who’s stealing this piece of junk? I duck inside. An old-fashioned bell jingles brightly, and the smell of fresh bread and the heat from the ovens envelop me like a warm hug. It’s small and cozy, no fancy display case filled with pretentious desserts, but what’s here is perfect: crusty loaves, golden croissants, scones dotted with currants, all fresh. My stomach growls.
Greedily, I grab a loaf of sourdough, its crust crackling under my fingers, and two pastries—a flakypain au chocolatand a cinnamon twist that’s practically glowing.
“Those hot-cross buns look amazing,” I say, handing over my cash, my mouth already watering.
“Aye, it’s fresh out of the oven,” the woman says.
“In that case, I’ll have one of those too.”
She packs my stuff for me and I’m out the door, too excited to wait. Outside, I perch on a bench and tear into the cinnamon twist. The first bite’s heaven—sweet, buttery, the dough melting soft with a crunch of sugar that sticks to my lips. I close my eyes, savoring it, the village humming around me, a dog barking somewhere, the sun warm on my face. This is why I came here, isn’t it? Moments like this, where the world feels completely right, where I’m not drowning in deadlines and dirty subways.
I lick my fingers clean, grinning like an idiot, and tuck the rest in my bag, ready for the next stop. The grocery store’s justdown the street, its sign faded but welcoming, windows stacked with canned goods and cereal boxes. Inside, it’s narrow shelves are crammed tight, and it smells faintly of lemons and new cardboard. I grab a metal basket and weave through the aisles.
My list is short but urgent—soap, cleaning sprays, a scrub brush, detergent—stuff to tame the cottage’s chaos. Spray paint for the chipped table, gloves for hauling junk. But as I pile bottles in the basket, reality hits: I’m on a damn bicycle. No trunk, no backseat, just a rickety basket up front that’ll hold a packet of sponges and a prayer. My heart sinks a little. I so wanted to make progress today, not limp back half-empty. Sighing, I ditch the heavier stuff and settle for a bottle of dish soap, a packet of nuts, some pieces of sponge, and a travel-sized detergent. My fingers linger on the spray paint before letting it go.
At the checkout, the cashier, a girl about my age with freckles, a messy ponytail, and bright blue nails, scans my stuff. If I had to guess her personality, I would put her in the extrovert, warm, generous, and super friendly category.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Oh! You’re an American,” she notes, her eyes brimming with curiosity. “Are you here on holiday?”
“No. I’ve come to live in Sweetbriar Cottage.”
She looks at me, her eyes as big as saucers. “So… you must be Mrs. Morrell’s granddaughter.”
I smile. “That’s me.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“Anyway, welcome to the village. People around here are quite helpful if you need anything. Just ask.”
“If I order supplies, will this store deliver them to me?” I ask, hating how limited I feel. “Like, cleaning supplies, paint, that kinda stuff?”
She nods, all business, and grabs a flyer from under the counter. “Sure. We’ve got a website. Free delivery over fifty quid. Just put in your address with a postcode, pick what you need, and Bob’s your uncle. Takes a couple of days usually.” Bob’s your uncle. I’ve never heard that saying before, but it’s cute. I tuck the flyer in my pocket, relief loosening my shoulders. Suddenly she gasps softly as her eyes dart past me.
I turn and follow her gaze… and there he is—Hugh, stepping out of a sleek black Range Rover across the street. My breath catches and my stupid heart does a somersault. He’s almost unrecognizable outside riding clothes. He is wearing black jeans and his black leather jacket hugs his shoulders while aviator sunglasses hide those piercing eyes.
Mesmerized, I watch him, moving like he owns the ground, full of quiet power, and for a second, I can’t look away. The Range Rover gleams, massive, pristine, and a spike of jealousy hits me as I recall the buttery yellow Aston Martin as well. How many cars does he have? I think, picturing my wobbly bike, my dusty cottage, his damn manor looming over it all.
