Page 53 of Neighbor from Hell
I dig my phone out and dial Hugh’s number, the screen blurring as my eyes burn. It rings, but after five rings it goes directly to voicemail. His voice—smooth, clipped, then that fucking delicious accent tells me to leave a message. I try again, then a third time, each unanswered call stoking the panic in my chest. The men are out there, waiting, probably muttering about the crazy American broad wasting their time.
“Fuck you, Hugh, for being so high-minded,” I mutter, tossing the phone on the sofa.
I can’t keep them waiting forever. I find my sneakers and shove my feet into them, my movements frantic. My hair is a wild mess, of course, but what the hell. I open the door again, and the bearded man is still there, his crew looking amused.
“Come in,” I say, my voice flat, and step aside.
They hesitate, then file in, boots tracking dirt across the warped floorboards, their disbelieving eyes scanning the chaos—piles of junk, half-torn drywall, basically the skeleton of my dreams.
I don’t look at them. I don’t want their pity or judgment. “Do… whatever you need to,” I mutter, and slip out.
The air outside is crisp, biting, the kind of spring morning that smells of wet grass and possibility, but I’m too wired to feel it. My sneakers crunch gravel as I march toward the manor, its stone walls looming, sleek and perfect, a mocking contrast to my crumbling wreck.
My thighs ache with every step, each twinge a reminder of Hugh’s fingers digging into my flesh, his lips searing my skin, and the way he stretched me, until I was nothing but hot need. I shove the errant thoughts down hard, but they remain, pulsing, making my cheeks burn as I climb the manor’s steps. I ring the doorbell, and soon enough, the butler appears.
His smile is polite but guarded, like he knows I’m a storm waiting to break. “Miss Hutton,” he says formally.
“Is he in? Can you please let him know that I need to talk to him urgently?”
His expression remains neutral. “Perhaps you would like to wait in the drawing room while I let his lordship know of your visit,” he says.
“Thank you.”
He leads me through the manor’s grand halls. No matter in what state I arrive, the grandeur of Montrose’s interiors always takes my breath away. As soon as Mr. Knox leaves, I look around me with wide-eyed wonder. Imagine growing up here, living here. What an amazing childhood Hugh must have had.
I don’t have long to wait. Mr. Knox is back, and he leads me to where I have already been before. The room that looks like a Victorian conservatory is a lovely pocket of summer in April’s chill. Hugh is sprawled in a wicker chair, a breakfast spread before him—croissants, jam, a steaming pot of coffee.
He’s bare-chested, pajama bottoms slung low on his hips, bare feet propped on an ottoman, and the sight hits me like a fist. He’s gorgeous, infuriatingly so, his dark hair tousled, skin golden in the morning light, a lazy god in his kingdom. We were both out last night, both drunk on wine and each other, but he looks untouched and totally in control, while I’m a mess, my body aching, my mind splintered by what we did, what I let happen.
He stands at my arrival, a smile curving his lips slowly like he’s been waiting for me.
“Lauren,” he murmurs, his voice warm.
It’s too much—too intimate, too knowing. “There are workers at my house,” I say, my voice low, trembling with the effort to stay calm. “Equipment, materials, a whole crew. I’m confused as hell, Hugh. I tried calling, but you didn’t pick up.” I force myself to meet his gaze, to ignore the heat creeping up my neck.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, his expression softening, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry about that,” he says. “I didn’t hear it ring. Knox has my phone charging somewhere.”
“Is there anything else, M’Lord?” the butler asks.
“That’ll be all. Thank you, Knox.”
The butler slips out noiselessly, leaving us alone.
“Come sit,” he says, gesturing to a chair, his voice gentle but firm, like he’s coaxing a skittish horse after it’s been startled by a sudden loud noise. “I’ll explain while you have breakfast with me.”
The quiet that follows is broken only by the faint clink of his coffee cup as he sets it down. I don’t move; my feet feel rooted. I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been in his presence because I realize now I handed him too much last night.
“Hugh,” I say, my voice tight with tension, “What’s going on? Why are those men at my cottage? And I don’t want to sit or have breakfast, just tell me.”
He sighs and leans back, making him look even more untouchable. “I saw the state of your place last night,” he says, his tone measured. “It’s a lot worse than I thought—more than you can handle alone, and it’ll take forever for you to do it. So I made some calls and got a crew together to help, to speed the job up. They’ll tackle it all at once—plumbing, walls, roof, the lot. And you’ll have a proper home, Lauren, sooner than you think.”
The words flow around like a wonderfully warm and soft blanket. I want to wrap it around me, but I’m from Chicago. People don’t do this kind of thing. The inner-city girl in me finds it impossible to take his words at face value.
The tools, the men, the sheer scale—it’s a lifeline, a miracle for a cottage drowning in chaos. Yes, I can see it even now: clean floors, sturdy walls, a garden blooming where weeds now choke. But it’s his lifeline, his money, his control, and I’m already in deep, my body and heart already hopelessly tangled with him.
“That’s… a lot,” I say slowly, my voice small, my arms crossing tight over my chest. “It’ll help, I know it will, but I can’t shake this feeling, Hugh. Like you’re being high-handed again, taking control ofmylife, and manipulating me.”
His jaw tightens, just a flicker, but his eyes stay steady, locked on mine. Instantly, I feel it—that pull, the same one that drew me to him last night, that made me kiss him back, let him carry me to the edge.
