Page 48 of Neighbor from Hell
I want to trust him, to believe in the man who flew a singing star across the world for me, but fear holds me, a cold claw around my heart. I’m caught, torn between falling and fleeing. My heart says enjoy, live for now; my head says, guard up, don’t fall.
I cut another piece of duck, the knife gliding smoothly. He must not suspect the war going on inside me.
Chapter
Thirty-Two
HUGH
The candlelight casts soft shadows across Lauren’s face. Her lips are stained faintly red. I can’t shake the unease curling in my gut—something shifted after she came back from the Ladies’ room, her brightness dimming, her smiles tighter, like she’s keeping a secret from me.
It’s unnerving how attuned I am to her, how every flicker in her eyes pulls at me. Of course, I’ve always read people well—business demands it—but with her, it’s as if I’m wired to her moods. When she’s lit up, as she was earlier with Raye, I feel it like a warmth spreading through me. Now, though, she’s quieter, her gaze drifting, and I feel in my gut that something is up. I need to know what’s wrong and fix it. I’m not used to caring this much. The rational part of me hates her pull, the way she makes me feel alive, unguarded, chasing her every shift like a melody I can’t predict.
Her fork glints in the candlelight as she cuts into the duck breast, the crispy skin giving way with a faint crackle, revealingthe tender, glistening meat beneath. I’m trying not to stare, but it’s impossible. Lauren is a quiet storm across the table, her every move tantalizing me. The red dress clings to her, her bare shoulders catching the golden glow of the candlelight. A stray curl has slipped free, and it brushes her cheek softly. My fingers twitch with the aching need to reach across and tuck it back, to feel the softness of her skin.
But I don’t give in to the need.
Her eyes flutter shut for a moment as she tastes her food, a soft hum escaping her throat—barely audible, but it hits me like a jolt, stirring something deep, primal. The gnocchi follows, pillowy and flecked with herbs, and she savors it, her movements slow, deliberate, like she’s rediscovering food itself. I’m caught, watching her lips, the delicate way her jaw moves, the faint flush creeping up her neck as the flavors unfold. She’s breathtaking, not just in beauty but in this unguarded moment, her hunger, honest and raw.
She pauses, fork resting against the plate, and glances up, catching my gaze. Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of surprise, maybe embarrassment, and I realize I’ve been staring too long, too openly. My heart kicks, but I don’t look away, letting a small smile curve my lips, hoping it hides the heat climbing my chest.
“Is it good?” I ask smoothly.
“Yeah. It is,” she replies. She watches me. “What kind of music do you like?” she asks, her voice soft but curious.
I lean back. “I don’t listen to music much. I prefer to work in the quiet, or even better, in the pure silence of my soundproofed office. It helps me think better.”
“Still, you can pick one, right?” Her eyes hold mine, waiting.
I shrug, searching for an answer. “If I had to pick… it would be jazz, maybe.” I nod toward the saxophone’s low hum, its notes wandering, unstructured. “Everything in my life’s… controlled, planned. Jazz isn’t. It’s messy. It keeps me guessing where it’llgo, and maybe that… I don’t know; it amuses me. It relaxes me, too.”
Her lips quirk, amusement sparking in her eyes, and I feel a small victory, like I’ve cracked her shell.
“You really like to be in control, don’t you?” she says, her tone teasing.
A half-laugh escapes, my guard slipping. “Yeah,” I admit. “I have to. My family’s legacy is a heavy one. I’m the only heir. My father is gone, and it is only my mother and I now. Restoring a heritage site like Montrose to its former grandeur is no cheap or easy task. There is always something going wrong. No sooner is one thing fixed that another falls apart. If it’s not the west wing, it’s the north wing. And on and on it goes. It is my responsibility to keep things running, keep it going.”
Her face softens, curiosity replacing the tease. “Your mother? Tell me about her?” she asks, tilting her head.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling faintly, picturing her. “The manor is not exactly her favorite place, but no doubt, you’ll probably see her in time.”
She nods, and we concentrate on our meal, and soon dessert is next.
She hesitates over the menu, her eyes lingering on a chocolate torte, its description—salted caramel, hazelnut praline. “This one sounds good, but I’m pretty sure it’s like a million calories,” she murmurs regretfully, her fingers tapping the page.
“We could share it,” I suggest, leaning closer, my voice soft, coaxing. “Few bites for you, and I’ll eat the rest.”
She stares at me with wide-eyed surprise, then her face suddenly lights up with pure delight as she squeals, a small, unguarded sound, her hand flying to her mouth.
I can’t hold myself back from laughing, and I am surprised at myself. It hits me then that I’ve never felt this with a woman,this lightness, this joy in her joy. It’s dangerous, how much I’m enjoying this, how much I want it to last.
The torte arrives, glossy and decadent, and we split it, her fork delicate, mine greedy, her giggles mixing with the jazz. I’m lost in it, in her, the night. I know it’s only a bubble, but I don’t want it to break. Ever.
Eventually, even coffee and cognacs are dispensed with, and it’s time to leave. I find myself immensely reluctant, but there’s no other choice. We get in the car, both quiet.
We both know something beautiful and temporary has ended.
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