Page 29 of Neighbor from Hell
I force my voice to be steady and grab at the one question that’s been gnawing at me. “Why do you want the land so bad?” I ask, crossing my arms tight to keep from shaking. “You’ve got more than enough. Is it some uber-rich-person thing—owning everything and everyone in sight?”
He pauses, sandwich halfway to his mouth, and his eyes meet mine, amused and searching. “No,” he says, his voice low and so calm it makes me look like I’m the unhinged one. “The property has always belonged to my family until my great-grandfather unwisely divided it, and gave ownership of your piece to his fickle mistress.”
The words hit like a jolt, my breath catching. A mistress? My mind spins, grasping for connections. “Are we… related?” I blurt, the question spilling out before I can stop it.
He shakes his head quickly as if even the idea is ridiculous. “No, no, of course not. His mistress sold it as soon as the affair was over to her nephew. Your great-grandfather, I believe. Upon his death, it passed down to his wife. Then it remained empty for some years until your grandmother claimed it about twenty-three years ago.”
I’m stunned, my lost history sinking in like stones in deep water. My cottage, tied to his family, by what must have been a scandalous affair in that time? A mistress in a cottage at the bottom of the garden. It’s dizzying and exciting. I must research her. “Well,” I say, finding my voice, “now that I know all this, I’m definitely not selling. This land’s got my family’s story in it, too.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Why do you want it so much?” he asks, turning my question back on me. “It’s just a piece of land. You’re young and carefree. There is nothing here for you. Isn’t the money more important?”
I bristle; the implication stings. “For you rich types, maybe money’s everything. But I care about the legacy—my grandmother’s, my family’s. That’s why I’m keeping it. Even if Idecide to sell someday, it’ll be my choice, not yours. No amount of coercion will change that. So please respect my decision.”
He stares, unblinking, as his dreamy teeth take another bite of his sandwich. He chews slowly, deliberately, savoring the food. I’m mesmerized despite myself, caught in the intensity of his gaze, the way his jaw moves. I don’t want to look away—it’d feel like admitting defeat, like I’m some coward who can’t hold her ground. But it’s too much, his eyes are boring into me, and my nerves falter.
I glance down and confused, reach for a raisin scone. Distractedly picking off a piece, I pop it in my mouth, but it crumbles to ash on my tongue. I swallow hard, set the scone back down, and push to my feet. I’m done here.
I start for the door, but his hand shoots out and closes around my wrist—firm, not painful, but strong enough to stop me dead. A gasp tears from my throat, my skin tingling where he holds me, a mix of surprise and something else that I don’t want to name.
“What are you doing?” I gasp, spinning to face him, my voice low, almost breaking as he stays seated, leaning forward, his grip unrelenting.
“Why are you fighting so hard to stay?” he asks, his voice soft, probing, like he’s peeling me open. “That cottage is a dangerous wreck. It’ll take years to fix, and for what? If you make it through the summer and autumn, you will freeze in the winter. Your grandmother used to huddle under a few blankets in front of a two-bar heater. There are other places in the city, Lauren. Houses that you can actually live in. Why cling to this one?”
His words burn, trashing my home like it’s nothing, and I wrench my wrist free, rubbing the spot where his touch lingers, hot and throbbing. “That’s none of your business,” I hiss, stepping back, my pulse hammering. “I said I’m not selling, and I meant it. That’s all you need to know.”
I turn to leave again, the room’s light blinding now, but he rises smoothly, quickly, his frame blocking my path. My heart stumbles, and I back up, my heel catching on the Aubusson rug’s edge. “What are you doing?” I ask, my voice wobbling as he looms closer, all cedar scent and quiet power.
“I grate on you,” he says softly, almost to himself.
“No kidding.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re overbearing and you don’t listen?”
He smiles. “Sure, it has nothing whatsoever to do with sexual attraction.”
“What?” I explode furiously. That he should know. Oh! My! God!
“You don’t feel it?” he asks. “I’m wrong?”
My breath stops; his words are like a thunderclap that leaves me stunned. My tongue trips over itself, stuttering. “Yes, you are wrong. I—I actually detest people who are so full of themselves,” I manage. “But if that’s what gets you through the night, go ahead and think it, but don’t bother me.”
I start to leave, heart pounding, but his fingers brush my arm again, lighter, and goosebumps flare, and my body betrays me. I stop and turn to him, my glare lethal. “I really don’t like the way you touch me. Don’t do it again, or we’ll take this to court.”
The corners of his lips tilt with amusement. “How American? You keep threatening legal action. I know you’re not joking, but I’m wondering… have you really no interest in me at all?”
I blink, his words twisting in my head. “I don’t know how to communicate my lack of interest in you in any clearer way,” I snap, voice shaking with frustration. I move to leave again, but his hand closes around my arm—not hard, but firm—and for a split second, lust spikes through me. I look into his eyes, gray and dangerous, and my heart races, knowing I’m teetering on an edge.
Part of me screams to deny it, to run, but another part—a treacherous, whispering part—knows the truth. I pull my arm free, and he lets go, but my feet won’t move, pinned by his gaze, by the heat curling in my belly, between my legs. He steps closer, closing the space, and my breath stops entirely. “What are you doing?” I whisper, voice barely audible, my hands trembling.
He looks deep into my eyes, unblinking. “You can leave anytime,” he says softly, a challenge. My hand shoots up, pressing against his chest to keep him back, and I feel it—his heart racing under my palm, matching the wild thud of mine. His breath brushes my face, warm and close.
“It’s not just me, is it?” he whispers.
I look up, caught in his gaze, and for a moment, I waver, strength draining. But then it hits me—Cecelia’s warning. Her voice echoes in my mind: He’s a womanizer. He’ll do anything to get your land. The spell shatters. This isn’t why I’m here. I came to change, to build something real, not to fall for his games. He’s a distraction, nothing more.
I start to pull away, resolve hardening, but his hands curl around my waist, warm and manly, sending a shock through me.
